


a curtain of stars

by thestrangehistorian



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M, M/M, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, everyone loves alcohol, i think i covered everything, some people love it too much, some ships are pretty minor but just wanted to give yall a heads up, subject to editing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2018-10-24 06:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10736040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestrangehistorian/pseuds/thestrangehistorian
Summary: Arthur and Yao are immortal magicians - rivals. In the year 1870, they decide to pit their apprentices against each other in a magical competition. Arthur chooses his own son, Alfred, while Yao pulls an orphaned Kiku from the streets of Kyoto. Meanwhile, eccentric billionaire Romulus di Silva has decided to create the most magnificent circus known to man: staged in black and white, open from dawn to dusk, a place where the lines between reality and fantasy are blurred. Arthur and Yao decide that this is the perfect place to test their apprentices. Every action, every word, every intake of breath is another chess piece moved - and there can only be one victor.A Hetalia AU based on Erin Morgenstern's book "The Night Circus," originally posted to my Tumblr but now fresh and edited some! I hope you enjoy!





	1. a gentleman's wager

It begins, as most stories do, with a promise.

See, it’s a funny thing. There’s a theory that in all the world, there are about five stories. Some say three, some say seven, depending on who’s telling. And that’s just the point, isn’t it? Some people hear this and they think, “Ah, I’ve heard this all before and I know how it ends.” They hate stories of all kinds. They’re wrong. They don’t understand.

Stories are different because they involve different people. Some involve only children, some involve only adults. Some are a mix of the two. Some stories take place across three continents and sometimes the world begins and ends in one town, population five hundred and seventy-two. Stories change when different people tell them. Some can only be told through word of mouth or through books or through a complicated series of gestures and dances.

But the promise is the important part. People make promises all the time. Chiefly to themselves but sometimes to other people. That’s what makes the story exciting. It’s the total sum of moments that make up our everyday lives. It’s waiting for the promise to be fulfilled. Stories are special for the same reason that humans are – it’s the little things.

In this story, the promise was called “a gentleman’s wager.”

So picture this.

Arthur Kirkland was an illusionist by trade, which meant that he was a liar. He specialized in drawing attention so you wouldn’t notice the trick taking place out of the corner of your eye. He traded in charm and distraction. It helped that he was really magic, of course. But he also hated it a little, and hated that he couldn’t stop it.

The magic wasn’t so bad. That was just the way magic worked in this world – subtle and out of sight. It was the stuff that came with that that he couldn’t stand. The lying. He lied about everything without even meaning to. For example, “Arthur” was his true name but “Kirkland” was borrowed. It may have come off a barkeep somewhere. After a while, it was hard to keep track of these things.

In the end, the lying was what got him in trouble with his wife.

Cecily Jones was young when Arthur Kirkland – charmed by the sparkle in her eye – swept her off her feet. They were briefly happy together and had a son. Then came the hard times. It lasted just over a year before she made him leave.

But just three years after that, she pinned a letter of instruction to their son’s coat and put him on a ship along with a suitcase containing two extra pairs of clothes and a few of his favorite toys. Arthur, who at the time was eking out a living in a dingy Glasgow hotel room and not expecting visitors – much less his own son – had no idea what to think when the bellhop dubiously informed him that he’d received “some post from abroad.”

Arthur, bleary and hung-over, came down from his room.

The hotel lobby was barely brighter than his single bed upstairs. A few shabby chairs crowded a fireplace. A second bellhop and the doorman stood together awkwardly, eyeing the child who was seated atop the crooked front desk, playing with a set of toy soldiers over the record books. And even if it hadn’t been an eon, Arthur would have recognized his son anywhere. He took after his mother.

Alfred heard the footsteps, looked up, and waved.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” said Arthur empathetically.

His bellhop looked startled. “Sir?”

Arthur’s heart went to war with itself. He thought about the abundance of half-empty bottles in his bedroom.

“Can you give me five minutes to tidy up?”

The young man agreed to keep Arthur’s son occupied for another five minutes.

When the bottles and other offending items had vanished, they brought the boy upstairs.

Alfred continued his play on the dusty and stained carpet while Arthur brewed himself a strong cup of tea. No amount of magic could cure a hangover but tea helped. He brought it back to his desk and sank into the creaking chair, watching Alfred set up the lines thoughtfully. Arthur had carved every single one of those damn toys by hand for his second birthday. He’d still been abroad then, living in New York. They were meant to be a peace offering. He had been sure that Cecily would throw them away; seeing them in his son’s hands now took the edge off a three-year-old ache.

At the same time, there were so many questions unanswered. The letter on Alfred’s coat was untouched – the bellhops had read it and pinned it back on but Arthur was too scared to get near his son at the moment. Why had she sent the boy here? The thought of him traveling across the Atlantic alone at his age made Arthur dizzy with fright; the Cecily he had married would’ve never allowed it. And for that matter, she’d made it abundantly clear that Arthur was a no-good scheming and two-timing bastard who would not see Alfred again for as long as she lived.

Then it hit him.

“Alfred?”

The boy looked up, smiling easily. Arthur’s heart winced.

“Do you remember who I am?”

“Yep! My dad.”

Arthur set down his teacup and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Alfred, I’m going to ask you something now, and it’s very important that you answer me honestly. Do you understand me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Put the toys down.”

Alfred did so reluctantly.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Uh-huh,” Alfred mumbled. His bright eyes dimmed as he looked down at himself – at the letter on his coat.

“Alright now. Remember – be honest. Where is your mother?”

The boy’s lips trembled. Terror seized Arthur; his son was about to cry and he didn’t know what he could say to stop it.

But then, Alfred’s tiny hands curled into fists and he declared, “ _No._ ”

“What?”

“No.”

Arthur sat back, astounded. “No, you won’t tell me?”

“No!”

The boy folded his arms and pouted. Arthur couldn’t decide if this was worse than tears.

“Alfred, this is not a game. Do you hear me? I told you it was important, didn’t I? I need you to tell me if something’s happened.”

“I don’ wanna.”

But he couldn’t be angry – not really. He’d been in the room when Alfred was born and had missed him terribly over the past three years. Three years that he could never get back. Time had lost so much meaning for Arthur – but this was his only child. Arthur’s irritation evaporated. He put his face in his hands and breathed deeply.

“Alfred, please. I just need to know.”

There was a long, heavy silence.

Suddenly, Arthur’s teacup trembled and shattered, sending tea flying in all directions.

“Good God!” Arthur exclaimed, leaping up from his desk.

Now Alfred finally burst into tears.

“I’m sorry!” he wailed. “I d-d-didn’t _mean_ to!”

Muscle memory kicked in. Arthur abandoned the cup and went to his son, gathering the boy up in his arms to comfort him. He would not be asking about Cecily again. He should have known as soon as the boy arrived. Perhaps he was finally getting old and slow.

It was going to be a messy few years.

Arthur tucked his son into the single bed. Since the cup belonged to the hotel, Arthur decided to repair it – piece by delicate piece. A few of the shards were so thin that he nearly missed them. He wouldn’t bother with the tea-stains, since they were indistinguishable from the other marks on the carpet. When that was done, he picked up the toy soldiers and put them into the little suitcase. This would wreak havoc on his lifestyle – all his plans.

Or perhaps not.

Still, looking at the boy’s sleeping face – his hands grasping as he was lost in a dream, towards something that seemed just out of reach – Arthur had an idea.

He unpinned Cecily’s letter from their son’s coat and burned it, resolving to put her to rest.

As the streetlamps dimmed on the streets below, Arthur went to his desk and penned a letter of his own.

* * *

 Now picture this.

On a gray, hazy afternoon in London, in the year 1870, two men met in a coffeehouse.

One was a local, yellow-haired and scruffy but quite well-dressed. He ordered a pot of tea and two cups. His guest arrived a few minutes later. The guest was clearly a foreigner and his appearance turned heads from staff and patrons alike. There was a strange, out-of-this-world quality to the visitor. Maybe it was the robes of rich red silk, maybe it was the glorious silken hair, or the fine face like a Renaissance carving come to life, or the fact that it was impossible to precisely determine the stranger’s age or gender.

Arthur Kirkland knew the truth of such things, of course – but then again, he’d known Wang Yao for seven centuries now.

Yao sat and took a sip of the offered tea.

“Tastes like sewage,” he declared.

“I wasn’t able to put us anywhere decent,” Arthur complained. “Short notice and all.”

Yao rolled his eyes. “You were always cheap. So, what’s this about?”

“What are you up to lately?”

“Why do you care?”

Arthur told him.

“You’re joking,” said Yao.

“Am I laughing?”

“Your _son_?”

The surprise – and that underlying hint of smugness – in Yao’s voice set Arthur’s teeth on edge.

“It’s been six months since he came to me,” said Arthur. “He’s got more potential than any person I’ve ever seen. I’ve already taken the liberty of beginning his training. This could be a perfect opportunity to –”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Yao let out a scornful little laugh. “Be realistic.”

“I am perfectly serious.”

“You didn’t call me all the way out here just to gush about your progeny, did you?”

Arthur said, “You would have gotten wind of this sooner or later.”

Yao’s eyes were the precise color of molten gold. They darkened, hardened as he set his teacup down, but they never left Arthur’s face.

“You really want to test me?”

“It’s not a test,” replied Arthur coolly. “I thought you of all people would understand that by now. Personally, I like to think of it as a gentleman’s wager.”

Though Yao hesitated, Arthur knew he had won. The gleam of interest in those golden eyes was all the answer he needed. Yao liked to think that he was above this world but Arthur knew him well enough to understand that he would never back down from a challenge. Yao liked to win. Yao liked to prove that he really was superior. The problem came in because Arthur liked those things, too. And if Arthur hadn’t suggested this wager then Yao would have called him out on it anyway. This had been their relationship for the last six hundred years. Challenge. Promises. Victory and defeat.

“It just so happens,” said Yao, “that I have brought a ring.”

Of course, thought Arthur. Of course.

“Prepared as always,” he replied, venomously sweet. “Just as I suspected.”

“You’re a sadist,” said Yao. “I hope the boy is as strong as you say. If not, you know exactly what will happen.”

Arthur did know, all too well.

Later, he wouldn’t be able to explain why he did all this. Maybe love had blinded him: his love of power, his love for his son, who was brilliant and strong and everything Arthur had always hoped he would be. Maybe he was just that arrogant. Maybe he was angry, after what happened last time. Or maybe it was something else – the nameless and terrible thing that happens to a heart after seven hundred years and too many funerals – finally catching up to him.

Arthur reached into his pocket and drew out a silver band etched with Celtic knots.

Yao traded him for a band of white-gold carved with the signs of constellations.

They shook hands and departed the coffeehouse, leaving the staff to wonder who had put this fresh pot of tea at an empty table.

* * *

Picture this.

In Kyoto, there was a new home for the city’s orphans. The woman who ran it was past middle age and starting to become forgetful due to a combination of clumsiness and overstress. She had too many wards and not enough money to care for them all.

But in the summer of 1870, a man came in and announced that he was looking to take on a student.

Confused, the caretaker questioned him. He gave a few specifics for what he had in mind for his student, though that didn’t quite help her understand his purpose here. The stranger spoke with a faint accent – old-fashioned, like modern Japanese didn’t suit him. He gave his name but she forgot it almost instantly. From the way he was dressed, he was clearly rich and important; she didn’t want to seem rude by asking for it again.

Wang Yao signed a few papers and went to sit in a cramped office.

After a few minutes, the caretaker returned with a young boy.

“I’d like to speak with him privately, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” the woman replied, distracted. In the distance, they could both hear the sound of the older children growing rowdy and restless. “As long as you need, of course.”

The door slammed shut but the boy didn’t flinch.

There was a little wooden table between them, but only one chair, so the child was forced to remain standing. Summer sun poured in from the outside, giving Yao good light in which to assess the boy’s condition. He was a bit small for his age but Yao guessed that he was about seven years old. He’d been dressed in the same plain clothes and given the same plain haircut that all male children received at the orphanage. His face was perfectly blank.

Interesting.

“Did she tell you why I’m here?” asked Yao.

The boy nodded.

“Good. How long have you lived at this place?”

“Always,” the boy said simply.

“Can you read?”

Another nod. Yao raised an eyebrow at him, waiting.

Reluctantly, the boy added, “We have lessons. And there are books here that someone has donated to us. I’m grateful for that.”

“But?”

The boy blinked in surprise.

“I read them all,” he admitted. “There’s not many.”

“Ah, I see,” Yao said, studying him again. “Do you get along with the other children here?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Such a delicate phrasing. So polite.

“Why is that?”

For the first time, there was a flicker of genuine emotion on the boy’s face.

“They told me I was a devil,” he said, near a whisper.

Yao could read the story in his eyes, in his posture, in his downcast eyes and the stubborn set of his mouth. Humans were so quick to dismiss anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Even the ones with no touch of power could sense the markers of a magician.

“Then I think you would enjoy studying with me,” he said. “I own plenty of books, so you won’t be bored anymore. And I’ll be able to put your particular talents to use.”

The boy’s confusion was obvious. He hadn’t mentioned any talents and probably believed that there was nothing special about him at all. But Yao could see the talent that had yet to blossom in him. He knew that if the boy didn’t get himself out of this building, then his gifts would be crushed out of him. If not by the dullness of life, then by some other tragedy. The boy probably understood this at some level, too, and maybe that was why he agreed so quickly.

Yao reached into one of his overlarge sleeves and took out Arthur’s ring.

“Wear this,” he said, setting it on the table between them.

The boy picked it up and turned it over in his hands curiously.

“What is it?”

“If you want to be my apprentice, you have to follow certain rules. This is one of them.”

After another moment of examination, the boy slipped the ring onto his finger.

It was too big at first. But Yao watched as the band tightened to the proper size – and kept shrinking. The boy let out a whimper of pain as the metal pressed down and down and down into his skin, burning it into him. But it was all momentary. As soon as the last traces of silver had burned away, the boy’s face cleared and he lifted his hand in shock. The ring had left a solid imprint – a good sign. The sear was red and angry but otherwise, he was unhurt.

“That will heal quickly,” said Yao, standing. “But the scar will remain.”

The boy looked up at Yao, wide-eyed.

“Are you a demon, too?”

“No,” he replied curtly. “I’ll explain it to you later. Do you have anything you want to grab before we leave? Any belongings?”

The boy shook his head.

“My name is Kiku,” he told Yao.

“Change it if you want,” Yao replied. “It doesn’t really matter what you call yourself in the grand scheme of things. Only small-minded people stick to labels.”

But at this, the boy frowned. There was something almost like anger in his impeccably calm face. Still, he didn’t protest when he packed his bags. He was quiet all through their journey to Yao’s home China as well. But over the trip – and over the course of the next several years – Yao suggested several new names for him, and the boy refused to answer to anything but “Kiku.”

* * *

Finally, picture this.

Romulus di Silva was the wealthiest man in Europe, and possibly in all the world. And what a strange man he was! He had a penchant for wearing bronze-colored suits. He never married but had several well-publicized affairs. Nobody seemed to know where his money was coming from. He told everybody that he was descended from the founders of Rome – “on my mother’s side!” He threw the grandest parties.

As he’d grown older, he fancied himself a Renaissance patron, paying for the education of poets and musicians, sponsoring ballets and operas, commissioning great works of art. Once in Barcelona, he met a talented street musician and dumped out his entire wallet in the man’s collection jar, forcing him to borrow money for train tickets back to Italy. He had many friends living there, so it wasn’t a problem; he seemed to know half the people in the world, and their mothers. Some of his friends were stranger than others though – like the man in the red silk robes, who dropped out of the sky to join di Silva for a dinner that consisted mainly of wine and long conversation.

The very next day, it became common knowledge that Romulus di Silva was going to sponsor a circus.

People were perplexed.

“What does a man like that plan to do with a circus?”

But when Signor di Silva made up his mind, nothing could change it.

The pieces were set.

The gentleman’s wager began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This is the Strange Historian who finally caved and got herself an AO3! If you're here from Tumblr, great! If not, you could totally go follow me @ "thisstrangehistory.tumblr.com" and see if I've tagged your favorite Hetalia ships yet. Shameless self-promotion aside...
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this fic! I've edited it a bit from the original Tumblr draft so if you go there to read it, it'll sound a bit different. But I like the changes - mostly they were clean-ups. Other than that, I hope you all enjoy! Let me know if you liked it! Happy reading!


	2. in rome

It had rained every day since Ivan stepped off the train.

“Damnedest thing,” said his landlady.

 _Typical_ , thought Ivan miserably.

For the last six months, he’d been living in Paris and though it was everything he’d dreamed of as a child, it still lacked that certain something. Friends had assured him that Rome had the answers. Now that the wars were over, the city was rich with atmosphere. He could write his novels in the shadows of the Coliseum, under red sunsets, drinking good wine and eating the most delicious food in the world with excellent company. But it seemed like his Russian luck had finally caught him.

It had rained for two weeks.

As he sat in the café, he could feel the way that everyone deliberately avoiding looking at him. That was typical, too, though luck had nothing to do with it. Ivan was twenty-three, a big strong man with a broad chest and shoulders. He towered over ordinary Italians, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, he was frightful pale, white-blond and his eyes such a dark shade of blue that they were nearly purple. The whispers that followed him – surrounded him, even now – destroyed his appetite. The white Russian, they called him and, freak. They didn’t know he spoke Italian. He picked at his food, knowing that the wait staff was anxious for him to leave but unable to abandon his meal. Rain pounded down outside, relentless as Ivan’s own heart pounding against his ribcage.

Here, stewing in desperation and misery, is where he finally broke down and took out his cads.

This was the moment that changed his life forever.

Ivan’s deck was a gift from his sister, who read cards as a hobby. When he was a boy, the supernatural fascinated him. He devoured every book of folklore that he could get his hands on – it had inspired his first writings. When he departed for Paris, dear Katyusha pressed the deck in his hands and told him to keep believing in magic. It was a bit foolish and dangerous but he kept the cards in his pocket at all times, for her sake. Ivan missed his sister so much that he feared it was having an adverse effect on his creativity. He hadn’t produced anything decent in weeks. It didn’t matter what he did anymore; what was the harm in a little fortunetelling?

Besides, the cards were practically indistinguishable from ordinary playing cards. On closer inspection, one would find that the cards were blue and white, inked with delicate spirals to indicate their suit and number. Their weight in his hands was so familiar; Ivan could almost smell home on them. The candles, the ghost of his mother’s perfume, the scent of his sister’s cooking. The muttering of the patrons got a bit louder but Ivan blocked it out, pretending it was just the rain.

He shuffled, thinking. There were several questions he wanted to ask but the most important thing was his book.

_How can I bring myself to write again when I am in such bad spirits?_

With that settled, he arranged the deck on the table, pushing his plates forward to make room. One by one, he flipped up the cards.

Ivan put a hand over his mouth and choked down a laugh.

_You will meet a tall and handsome stranger._

Alternatively, something was coming that would give him inspiration – something or someone. As if he was a silly girl with dreams of a whirlwind romance. This cheered him up hugely, at least enough for his appetite to come back a little.

The deck was halfway to his pocket again when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Ivan grimaced and turned around.

Standing there was a young man Ivan had never met. Tall – not quite as tall as Ivan, just tall enough that he was a touch out of place. He was golden blond, wearing a pair of spectacles over the brightest and bluest eyes that Ivan had ever seen on a human being. He smiled, friendly and inviting. Ivan was sure he hadn’t been in here moments ago but he couldn’t remember seeing this person walk in either. He looked like he’d discovered a hidden treasure; Ivan eyed him warily.

“You read cards?” asked the stranger.

Something shifted, imperceptibly. Ivan felt the world sharpen, drawing his eyes to the strange young man’s face. He did not like this.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ivan, hiding the deck beneath the table. His English was much better than his Italian, so he could make the words a bit more forceful. But the stranger didn’t seem discouraged in the slightest.

“But I saw you just now with the deck.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“Look, I get it, you know,” said the strange with a crooked smile. “That kind of stuff makes people real nervous, ‘specially out in small towns. But here in the cities, it’s all fashionable and exciting, right? And anyway, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m in the know.”

Ivan didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. He frowned.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Sure! Mind if I sit?”

Without waiting for permission, the young man swung himself around and dropped into the empty chair across from Ivan. Taken aback, Ivan glanced around in the café. This would only draw more attention to him – but everyone was looking the other way. In fact, Ivan had the suspicion that they could not help but avert their eyes now. Something was off.

But truthfully, this was – by a huge margin – the least horrible thing to happen to Ivan since he’d arrived in Rome.

“Alfred Foster Jones,” said the stranger, reaching his hand across the table. “Pleasure.”

Ivan said, “I’d like to finish my meal, if that’s alright with you.”

“Why so cold? Is it easier if I speak Russian?”

“What?”

“What?” asked Alfred Jones, innocent.

“How could you have possibly known that I was Russian?”

Alfred grinned at him. “It’s the accent – plus I overheard some people talking when I came in. But I’m not lying about speaking it, you know. I speak tons of languages but people always say I’ve got this terrible accent, so in the end it’s up to you.”

“English is fine,” said Ivan tiredly.

“Great! It’s easier for me, too. I think fastest in English.”

Ivan squinted at him across the table. “This is all a little confusing. Why are you here?”

“I want to see you read tarot!” said Alfred eagerly. “You can do it, can’t you?”

“I don’t see why it’s any of your business.”

“Well, I never really got good at tarot,” said Alfred, surprising Ivan. “It’s so, I dunno. Unspecific? Like all the cards have one set of meaning but depending on where they fall or what they’re paired with they end up being something completely different. I like straight answers, you know?”

“You haven’t given me any straight answers.”

“You haven’t asked me many questions!”

Ivan grimaced. “Very well. Let’s start with something simple. How old are you, exactly?”

“Eighteen,” was the shocking answer. “What’s with that face? Do I look older?”

“Yes,” Ivan admitted. “But then again, I’m not sure why I was surprised. You talk like a child.”

Alfred choked on a laugh. “Come on, seriously?”

“It’s the truth. Next question: Where are you from and how did you come to be in Rome?”

“I’m from Boston originally –” _American_ , thought Ivan, _naturally_. “– lived with my mom for a couple of years but she didn’t really have much and after she died, I came over to Europe to live with my dad. Never picked up on the accent, though. Anyway, he’s the one who set me up with a job here. It’s not that interesting but it’s work and I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do.”

Ivan’s eyes narrowed again. As far as he could tell, Alfred wasn’t lying. He just wasn’t telling the whole truth. So much for a straight answer. His glaze was clear and pure, but there was something in it that put Ivan off – the hidden glimmer of strength or maybe cunning. It was… intriguing, frankly. But Ivan kept coming back to the way that no one in the restaurant would look at them. He couldn’t seem to focus on anything else but this young man’s face.

“So I told you about me,” Alfred said. “And I can tell you some more – if you read cards for me.”

“Why should I?”

Alfred blinked. “Well, there has to be some give and take, right? We can’t go creating an imbalance in our relationship right off the bat!”

For some reason, Ivan’s heart twisted.

“Just one reading,” the stranger wheedled. “Come on, please? Or – or do you really not know how?”

Ivan’s fingers tightened around his deck.

“No,” he admitted quietly. “My sister taught me everything she knows. I can do it.”

“Great! Show me.”

And all of a sudden, Ivan’s doubts vanished. After all, what did he have to lose?

Ivan took the deck and shuffled, holding a question in his mind. When he was done, he presented the cards to Alfred.

“Please, choose three.”

Alfred obeyed, allowing Ivan to flip up his cards. _Korol’zhezlov. Lyubovniki. Bashbya_.

“This is a very powerful set,” said Ivan, frowning.

“What’s it tell you?”

Ivan looked dubiously up at Alfred. “I – I am sorry. I’m not used to reading for strangers.”

“Okay, that’s fine! How about this? You tell me what you think the card says and I’ll tell you if it’s true or false.”

The cards were complicated. Perhaps if he asked for another draw… but then again, he’d already given more to Alfred than he’d intended. Ivan gazed into the proud face of the King of Wands, thinking. Of course. _Of course._

“From this one, I would say that despite your youth, you have considerable power. And here, this indicates a powerful emotional bond with someone. The bond might act as a burden for you but it’s possible that, as a result of these things, you will cause dramatic change.”

Alfred burst out laughing.

“True! All true! That’s incredible!”

As he laughed, Ivan felt the world shift again. Something thawed inside him.

“Now,” he said, trying to ground himself once more. “I suppose I’ve gotten what I wanted. Now you may ask me a question.”

“First, I’ve got to know,” said Alfred, “what you’re doing in Rome?”

“I’m a novelist.”

“No way!”

“Yes. Have you ever visited Moscow?”

“No,” said Alfred, with fascination. “My dad hates the city. Says the weather is even worse than in London!”

“He’s correct. When I was younger, I came up with a theory that – because of the gloomy atmosphere – so many Russian novelists write about depressing things. Like, ah… like decaying aristocrats who all wind up committing suicide for forbidden love. I grew up reading books like that. So when I got older, I thought I could go to Paris to write but I didn’t manage to produce anything. I was ready to give up but one of my friends told me to come here. He said Rome had even better weather and a perfect writing atmosphere – it’s a good city for romance. His words, not mine,” Ivan added, because Alfred sniggered. “And to keep it short, I thought, ‘Well, I can go back home, endure more hellish winters and write the same novel as everyone else, or I can go to Rome and write something truly magnificent.’ And so, here I am.”

Alfred smiled with real warmth this time. “Can’t the cards tell you what to write?”

“You truly know nothing about tarot. No, the cards only answer basic questions.”

“Then why don’t you just ask it what to write?”

Ivan had to chuckle at this. Alfred looked triumphant.

“I knew I could get a smile out of you!”

“Congratulations,” Ivan replied dryly. “Now, I believe it’s your turn to share.”

“Have it your way. You know Signor di Silva?”

Ivan had never heard of this man.

“Seriously? I thought you being a writer and all, you must’ve. I swear everybody in Europe has this guy’s card, especially artsy types! He’s rich as sin and he loves all kinds of art, so people are always coming to him to ask for help and advice and stuff. I think he even put on a couple of Russian ballets once but that’s not the point. He’s my boss. Do you want to meet him?”

This had all happened very fast. Ivan felt like he was falling.

“What for?”

“I just think we could use someone like you for the new project. You don’t have to agree and sign up or anything. Just… just come to meet him.”

An hour ago, Ivan would’ve said no instantly. Half an hour ago, Ivan would’ve told Alfred to fuck off. But it hit him all at once: that he was sitting in this pretty café in Rome with a man he hadn’t known existed until he’d sat across the table but the world was brighter and shinier now. It was the strangest thing that had happened to him in years – the chance of a lifetime. Katyusha would’ve told him to be grateful, and Ivan was.

“Hey, I think the rain’s finally letting up!” said Alfred excitedly. “What do you say?”

Ivan only hesitated for a moment.

* * *

Romulus di Silva lived in a mansion atop one of Rome’s seven great hills. Wrapped in columns and trimmed in what might’ve been real gold, it looked more like a temple than a place where someone might live. The locals referred to it as the Wolf House.

“Get it?” asked Alfred, as he showed Ivan the door. “Like in the story?”

Ivan nodded just to acknowledge that he’d heard. The entryway was grand and silent, cool marble floors and the walls lined with tapestries and paintings. Beautiful, but empty. If there were servants, they had made themselves invisible. Alfred strode confidently forward, not caring that he was tracking in mud from outside. Neither of them had an umbrella and the rain had only eased on-and-off for a few moments while they ran through the city with their coats over their heads. Ivan felt distinctly underdressed but less like a stranger in a fine place like this.

“This way!”

Alfred led him through the winding hallways, up staircases and through doors that seemed to blend into the walls.

“He’s kind of an eccentric,” said Alfred, by way of apology. “He moves stuff around all the time so it can be tough to get around in this place. He likes to play tricks and games.”

So Alfred’s boss was as crazy as he was. Ivan did not feel comforted by this.

Eventually, they came to a great pair of French doors.

Alfred knocked. “Signor? It’s me. I’ve got someone who wants to meet you!”

Ivan had the sudden urge to turn and leave, to go back to his flat and ruminate over his unfinished manuscripts in peace. He didn’t like the feeling of what was beyond that door. The deck in his pocket felt heavy and warm. But before he could tell Alfred that he’d changed his mind, the doors swung open.

Within, there was a great dining room – a table with many chairs, but only set for one. There was an aging man seated at the head of this table, a cup of wine in his hand and a half-eaten plate of pasta in front of him. Pen and papers surrounded him; he had an ink-stain on his cheek. At first, because of his hunched posture and the salt-and-pepper quality of his hair, Ivan didn’t think much of him. Then, Romulus di Silva stood up and Ivan jolted to see that despite his lined face, di Silva was as tall and strong as a man twenty years younger. He was a flash of color, his bronze-and-copper suit paired off with a crimson tie. His amber eyes shone out of his olive face when he beamed at them.

“Alfredo!” he exclaimed in heavily accented English. “How many times have I told you, you must call me by name, yes? These formalities are for strangers, I won’t have it in my own house, do you understand?”

“Of course, Signor,” said Alfred cheekily. “Whatever you say, Signor.”

“You are a foolish boy! Too handsome for your own good. If you were uglier, you might have some manners.”

Di Silva said all of this very cheerfully; Ivan got the sense that he was very fond of Alfred.

“And who is this?” the old man exclaimed, turning to Ivan now.

“Ivan Braginski,” said Alfred. “He’s a novelist.”

“Ah!” Di Silva’s eyes lit up. “A Russian novelist. I hope you will write something cheerful, like Karamazov! I read that in the magazines when I can, such a talent! I hope the author will keep it up. What do you need, eh? I can do anything, anything for the arts! I am a Renaissance man. Come sit, sit down and eat with me.”

“I’ve already –” Italians, when not intimidated by appearances, were an incredibly friendly people. Even friendlier than Americans. Together, Alfred and Romulus di Silva were a disastrous and frightening combination for a winter-hardened and introverted Russian such as Ivan.

“You did, eh? Then, drink with me! You like wine? If not, I can get something else. Alfred doesn’t like the wine, he says it’s too sour. I say he’s too young, you have to get the taste for it. He doesn’t know what he’s missing, you know.”

Di Silva led Ivan to the table, abandoning his place at the head and seating himself across from Ivan instead. He poured Ivan a glass of wine and made him give his opinion. Di Silva explained the vintage, where it had come from in the world – all the way from Canada, Ivan learned, which meant it was very delicate – and compared it to the other wines he had at his table now. Di Silva talked of wine like it was an art in and of itself and somehow, he made none of this boring. He told a story about his favorite winemakers, a story about being wine-drunk in Paris on a clear summer night. Ivan listened, with more than just a polite interest.

“So, anyways,” di Silva finished after a time. “Can you forgive an old man for going on? I am always distracted. If not for Alfred, I think I would lose my own head.”

In the meantime, Alfred had taken the liberty of sitting in di Silva’s old vacant chair. He had been mostly quiet, peering at the papers and stealing bites off his boss’s plate – impudent behavior, but if di Silva noticed, he didn’t seem to care. Now Alfred stood up and stretched, apparently having been waiting for just this opportunity to jump into the conversation again.

“Ivan’s not just a novelist. He reads tarot, too.”

Di Silva frowned. “I thought I told you no fortunetellers. No offense meant, my friend, but they are most all hacks and schemers. They tell you what you want to hear and they take your money and they leave you empty. I will not have one in my circus. My audience deserves better than this.”

Ivan knew nothing about a circus. The relaxing lull he’d fallen into during the storytelling vanished in the space of heartbeats.

“Trust me,” said Alfred, coming to stand behind Ivan and lean against his chair. “He’s good. He’s not a hack. He only answers your questions. And he can tell you about yourself – stuff that you don’t tell to other people. It’s really something, Signor, you should just try and –”

Di Silva made a long, dismissive sound.

“Just try it,” his assistant said. “Just let him do one reading and then see how you feel.”

“You think it’s a really good idea?” said di Silva, sighing. “Very well, I will have a reading.”

Ivan blanched. “Excuse me, Signor –”

“No! My friends call me by name, I told you.”

“Signor Romulus,” said Ivan, a bit helplessly, “I have no idea what’s going on.”

A clock in the corner chimed four. Ivan started; he hadn’t realized how late it was. Yet the strangest day of his life still had more to offer.

Di Silva smiled.

“Ah, so Alfred did not explain. Don’t mind him, he is just a foolish boy. He gets caught up in his own head sometimes, he does not think it all through. But he is a good assistant for me. You know I am a patron, I live for the arts. But what I really like is to make other people feel – feel pleasure, feel joy, feel wonder, feel inspiration. And the arts have that power like nothing else can. I have done everything, painting and pottery, fashion and dance, wine and music. Now I am trying something new: I am going to make a circus.

“Alfred has come to me at just the right time. His father is an old friend, you see. When I learned I was having trouble with my designs, he told me, ‘Not to worry, Romulus, I will send my son to Rome for you. Give him good work.’ And since then everything has been going very smoothly! By November, we will have it ready for the world to see. And they will not have seen its equal, not in their lives.

“So now we are finishing up our search for the acts. They cannot be ordinary performers with smoke and mirrors. They must be the masters of their craft. You see, some art comes inborn in people and others have to work very hard for their talents. The rare sort of person who is born with talent and works to perfect it – that is the person we want in this circus. We have many fine acts lined up already, of course, but the last thing I wanted to find was an illusionist. Auditions will take place in the summer and that will be the end. I have told Alfred I don’t want fortunetellers, you see, because – as I said there is no offense meant – but I do not think that there is a fortuneteller in all this world who can meet our standards.”

“I still think it would be good to have one,” said Alfred promptly. “After all, have you ever heard of a circus without a fortuneteller?”

“One more way our project will stand out.”

Alfred shook his head at Ivan. “I keep telling him it’s a staple but he won’t listen to me! So you have to convince him.”

Now, some of what Alfred told him in the café made sense.

“I do not think I want to join a circus,” said Ivan slowly.

“See!” said di Silva, gesturing. “He does not want to join.”

“But,” Ivan added, “I would like to show you want I can do. If you don’t mind, of course.”

“Of course! I have already told you, I told Alfred that I would do it. I will have my fortunes told. Go on, my friend, let me see what you’re capable of.”

Alfred grinned at him, triumphant and bright. Ivan had to look away quickly, drawing the cards from his pocket to shuffle them.

“Tarot isn’t really about seeing the future,” explained Ivan. “It’s more about understanding the scope of possibility. I can’t tell you what you will eat for breakfast tomorrow, or if you will marry and have children. That’s up to you. The future isn’t set in stone. But if there is something troubling you, I can help you to understand what caused it. I can tell you the truth as I see it. It won’t be precise, but I am very accurate.”

“Who taught you this?” di Silva asked.

“My sister. She found this deck in a shop when we were young. The shopkeeper was so afraid of the cards that she gave it away for free. But my sister is fearless. She worked hard to understand the tarot and practiced it with me. And when I went abroad, she gave me the cards as a gift. When I go back to Russia, I plan to return them to her.”

Di Silva nodded, satisfied with the answer.

Ivan took the cards and spread the deck out on the table, face down.

“Think of a question. It shouldn’t be a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Think about what worries you or what you’re curious about. When you have that, please choose a card that calls to you. It may feel warm or stick to your hands. This will be the card that represents you in the reading.”

Di Silva nodded again. The clock tick-tocked gently in the corner, filling the silence as the old man ran his fingers over the backs of the cards. Back and forth, back and forth, tick-tock, tick-tock. Ivan’s heart beat in time with the sound. Then, di Silva chose his card.

And he smiled and turned it over, showing it to Ivan and Alfred.

 _Gibel’_.

Ivan was horrified. “I’m so terribly sorry, Signor. I seem – I seem to have made a mistake.”

“There is no mistake,” said di Silva, chuckling warmly. “I am an old man. Death is not so shocking for me as it is for you.”

“The Death card is usually symbolic,” said Ivan hastily, gathering up the deck. “It means an ending. But I’ve never had it come up in relation to a person like that before. Please let me try again. I am still an amateur, after all.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Alfred assured him. “Besides, Signor is going to outlive us all at this rate.”

Di Silva laughed again. “You flatter me. Go on, my friend. Do what you must.”

Ivan reshuffled and spread out the cards in a long arc again. This time, di Silva drew the Ace of Wands and Ivan breathed a sigh of relief. It must have been bad luck to draw the Death card the first time, pure and simple bad luck.

“Please continue drawing cards,” he told di Silva. “Hand them to me and I will lay them out for you. In the end, you’ll have a total of nine.”

And so they went, di Silva drawing cards again and again. Ivan was careful not to move or shift anything as he maneuvered them into the proper position, creating a Celtic cross on the table. This was the most common tarot spread, the one that Ivan understood best. When all nine cards were in place, Ivan studied them together, noting the patterns, thinking.

“It seems you’re a man of many talents. But in your youth, you were wasted by this world. You managed to find luck – a benefactor of your own – and went forward with that. Instead of seeking to eliminate ugliness, you sought to bring about beauty. Hence your obsession with the arts.”

“I have told you all of this,” said di Silva, amused.

“But you never mentioned a woman.”

Di Silva’s eyes widened slightly.

“I don’t know her name,” said Ivan, indicating the High Priestess. “But I know she must have been intelligent and beautiful, for her to inspire you so much. She may have been older than you at the time you met. Was she your first love?”

He took the old man’s silence as a yes.

“Something terrible happened to her,” said Ivan, gesturing to the relevant cards. “Something that you failed to prevent. And it weighs heavily on you to this day. Perhaps this is why you drew the Death card first. Her tragedy sits at the front of your mind, even when you’re not conscious of it.”

Ivan risked a glance at Alfred, who seemed as surprised by this information as di Silva. It seemed that this truly was a private matter, one that di Silva didn’t discuss even with those he was close to. Ivan took one more look at the cards.

“As for the circus, I cannot say for sure if it will be a success,” he said, sitting back. “All I can tell you is that, due to the strength of your creativity and willpower, you have the potential to achieve all your aspirations, no matter how high.”

For a long moment, di Silva was quiet. Tick-tock, tick-tock was the only sound in the room.

“Well,” he said at last. “Well, well, well.”

“What did I tell you?” Alfred declared. “He’s great, isn’t he?”

Alfred slung his arm around Ivan’s shoulder when he said this. Ivan couldn’t help the flood of heat that spread up his neck; the last person who’d embraced him with so much affection was his sister. He shook Alfred away and gathered up the cards. Across the table, di Silva picked up his half-empty wineglass and studied the ruby-colored liquid within.

“Everything you said about my past is true,” said di Silva, the most solemn he’d been since the moment Ivan arrived. “I have never told anyone about Helena. She was, as you said, my great tragedy. She is the marker for the end, before I became the man I am today. I am very impressed that you managed to figure it out.”

“I’m sorry if I offended you, Signor.”

“Do not,” said di Silva, waving a hand and smiling again. “You are very talented indeed. And I think that Alfred is right – if you were a fortuneteller in my circus, you would tell the truth. You have honest eyes. You are no hack.”

“So what do you think?” Alfred asked. It was hard to tell who he was speaking to, exactly.

“I think it is wonderful,” said di Silva. “Ivan is more than welcome in the circus. He will have his own tent!”

“Pardon me, Signor, but –”

Di Silva brushed him off again. “I heard you the first time, silly boy. I’m not deaf yet. You don’t want to join the circus, you are an amateur, and that is fine. But I don’t think we’ll find another card-reader like you, my friend. You have a gift.”

Anyone could read tarot. It was just a matter of intuition. “It’s nothing.”

“Yes, it is,” said di Silva. “Don’t argue with me. I have a sense of these things.”

“But the fortuneteller is in, right? Alfred prompted.

“Yes, yes,” his boss agreed, standing and stretching, “but only if our friend Ivan agrees.”

Alfred looked only a little disappointed. “Hear that? Looks like I have to convince you to run away and join the circus!”

“You will have a very hard time of that,” said Ivan with amusement. “I came here to write, remember?”

“Your masterpiece, of course!” exclaimed di Silva, coming over to shake his hand. “Remember that I am your patron now. So if you need anything – anything in the world – money for your rent, editors, you come straight to me. Promise.”

Ivan promised and took his leave of the Wolf House. Time seemed to have sped up since he was there. Already the city was dark, black and blue with spots of orange light lining the avenues below their temple on the hill. Ivan inhaled deeply, tasting the rain on the air. He could scarcely remember what he’d been doing all afternoon, before this. Before…  
Alfred offered to escort him out, and then offered to drive him back to the city in di Silva’s carriage. Though Ivan was tempted, he declined.

“But it’s so late! What if you get mugged or something?”

“I am more than a match for any mugger in this city.”

Alfred grinned. “I’m sure you are. Hey, listen, you know where to find me now, so come back any time. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Ivan studied him levelly. “You really are going to convince me to run off and join the circus, aren’t you?”

“Hell, I’ll give it a shot!”

Alfred smiled and bid him goodnight.

Ivan went home.

And when he woke up in the morning, the rain had stopped and the sun shone clearer than Ivan had ever seen it before. Only then did he realize that he’d never actually told Alfred his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two right off the bat! Let's see if I've managed to post everything correctly! The rest should be coming up later today! Happy reading and let me know if you enjoyed!


	3. the magician's apprentice

It took three days – three gloriously sunny days – before Ivan convinced himself to go and see Alfred again.

The first day, he pretended that the café and the Wolfe House had been some kind of fluke. He toyed with new ideas for a piece and penned a letter to his friends in Paris. He thought about the circus, then tried to avoid thinking about the circus by attempting to replicate on of his sister’s home cooked meals. It was a failure. He thought about drinking wine at the Wolf House and Alfred’s arm around his shoulder. He wrote. He slept.

The second day, he tried to put himself together again but discovered that nothing lined up quite right anymore. Alfred had cracked open a veil of normalcy in Ivan’s life. He thought about the day he’d left home and the way Katyusha said, “Keep believing.” He wrote a few lines and abandoned the effort. He had a powerful urge to get drunk. Keep believing. Keep believing. Believe in what? What did he believe in? As a little boy, Ivan believed in magic because that was what little boys did. He was a grown man now and men were supposed to believe in… what? Alfred said he was in the know – know about what? The circus? Something else. There was no magic in tarot, was there? Whatever it was, it had started because Alfred smiled at him.

The third day, he went down to the café and picked at his food, eating as slowly as he could get away with. He waited for Alfred to show up again, but after an hour or two, Ivan was forced to give up and go home. He wrote. He took out his deck and read them. He thought about his sister. When Ivan was a little boy – no more than five or six – a circus had come to Moscow for a few weeks in the summer. He’d seen an elephant up close. He’d seen a man twist himself into impossible shapes. He’d seen a woman balancing on wire as thin as a strand of hair. He thought about Paris. He thought about Alfred. And as Ivan lay in bed that night, he came to a decision.

The next morning, he went to the Wolf House.

* * *

And that was how, one week later, Ivan found himself on a train to Vienna with Alfred. A first-class ticket, no expenses spared.

“Jesus Christ, this place is fancy,” said Alfred, rolling a lump of ice around the bottom of a glass of whiskey. Though it had warmed up considerably, he’d still insisted on wearing gloves. “Are you seeing this? My dad’s a total cheapskate. He’d blow a gasket at all of this.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to be drinking when you have an important meeting?”

“I’m not a lightweight,” said Alfred, a bit defensive.

Ivan had to smile. “I never said you were.”

“Besides, you’re probably used to all this. You know what I figured out about you? I bet you’re secret royalty or something. That’s why you’re okay being broke abroad – because all your life you harbored dreams of living simply among the common folk.”

“Nonsense. The family fortune was gone long before I was born.”

Alfred stared at him. “I can’t tell if you’re joking,” he said at last. “Are you joking? I was most definitely joking about you being secret royalty.”

Ivan only smiled back at him.

“Fine, be that way!”

And perhaps to spite him, Alfred downed the rest of the whiskey in a single gulp.

“You know, you don’t talk too much,” said Alfred, setting the glass on his armrest. “Seriously. I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall half the time when I’m with you. Signor keeps talking about what an honest guy you are, but I feel like you’re just yanking my chain around.”

“He thinks you’re honest, too.”

Alfred grinned back at him. “I am. I’m an open book!”

 _With half the pages torn out_ , thought Ivan. _I wonder what you did with the rest._

Ivan glanced out the window at the golden hills of the Italian countryside. They were going past an orchard now, with all the trees in bloom. Petals scattered on the breeze, mixing with the heavy black smoke of the train as they roared past.

“I have been on a train like this,” he said thoughtfully. “When I was young.”

Alfred said, “Secret nobility.”

“Hardly. I could just as easily say the same for you.”

“America doesn’t have a king, moron!” said Alfred with good humor. “That’s the whole point!”

“But I barely know anything about you,” said Ivan. “And it’s as you said on the day we met: We shouldn’t be creating imbalances in our relationship when it’s still so young.”

They looked at each other, challenging. The car rumbled; other passengers chattered in Italian and German and French, clinking glasses together and dinging silverware against their plates as they ate. Ivan would not back down and Alfred blinked before he did.

“Alright,” he said, a bit curt. “What exactly do you want to know?”

Keep believing.

“I want to know how you made those people in the restaurant look away from me.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?”

“Before you came in that day, people kept staring at me like I was some kind of zoo exhibit. And after, it was like I’d become invisible.”

“How do you know that was me?”

“The same way that you recognized my deck was not an ordinary one. The same way I know you made the rain let up when we walked to the Wolf House that day. You’re not ordinary, Alfred. And I understand secrets – but I don’t like liars.”

For a long time, Alfred just stared at him. There truly was an innocence in him. It seemed like Ivan might’ve genuinely shocked his companion with these words, if his wide eyes and slackened jaw were any indication.

Alfred leaned back in his chair, chewing at his lip.

Ivan waited. And waited. The train roared. Dull conversation buzzed around them.

And suddenly, it all went quiet.

Alfred sighed.

“You’re a smart guy,” he said. “I pulled out all the stops on you last week and you still saw through me. I can’t remember the last time someone did that. And I can’t actually change the weather, you know. I just tried to keep us dry when we walked.”

 _Finally_. Ivan thrilled with the truth – an impossible truth, like something out of a book of fairy stories – but it was Alfred’s truth. _I knew it._

“So, what are you? A magician?”

“My dad hates that word,” said Alfred, resting on his elbow and staring out at the countryside. “He works as an illusionist – doing shows and stuff all over the continent. But his powers are a little different than mine. It’s more like I can reach out and change stuff if I want it hard enough. And I understand the difference between what’s true and what people tell themselves to make life simple.”

Ivan frowned. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Surprisingly, Alfred flushed. “I don’t know, okay? That’s just the best way I can describe it. There’s a textbook definition out there somewhere but I’m not really good at – you know – studying out of books and stuff.”

“You had textbooks,” said Ivan, smiling despite himself. “Magic lessons.”

“Kind of? If that’s what you want to call it.”

Since he still seemed embarrassed, Ivan switched to an easier question.

“So, am I to understand that your father taught you everything you know?”

“Yeah.”

But this didn’t make him relax at all. He heard a faint click, drawing his eyes to Alfred's abandoned glass. There was a thin crack, long and jagged, in the glass now. Ivan noticed his's friends posture – deliberately casual, face turned towards the window as he pretended not to look at Ivan through the glass. He wanted so badly to say more but bit his tongue. It seemed that Ivan had touched a nerve by mentioning Alfred’s father.

They didn’t speak again until they had reached the city.

* * *

Surprisingly, Ivan knew more about the Edelstein family than Alfred. 

“Didn’t Signor explain this to you before he sent you to meet with them?” Ivan asked as they strolled out of their hotel for the meeting.

Alfred tugged at the sleeves of his suit, lips pressed together.

“Well can’t you use your magic to find out?” Ivan asked, only half-teasing.

“Oh, shut up!” Alfred snapped.

Several people stared. It was hard to tell if they spoke English but regardless, Alfred flushed and flicked his wrist, and their heads turned away in almost unison. Ivan was fascinated.

It was twilight in Vienna, all purple skies and cobbled roads and Gothic houses that grew larger and more spacious the longer they walked. The Edelstein family – Ivan explained – were very distant descendants of the Hapsburgs. They had lived in Austria since there was an Austria to live in, and were very proud of this. It was something of a scandal when their only son and heir, Roderich, took a wild Hungarian woman for his wife. She had grown up in the mountains and came to her wedding with wildflowers in her hair, smelling strongly of horses, with not title and no money to her name. But nothing could break them apart. At least, so far nothing had.

“A society scandal?” Alfred frowned. “You’re not really helping my ‘secret nobility’ theory here, pal.”

Ivan ignored this. “They’re complete opposites, but they get along so well because all Roderich wants to do is play his violin and Elizabeta wants to feel like she’s in charge of everyone. So he stays in his study and she runs the household – and the family business, which I think is the main thing that bothers his relatives.”

“What’s the family business?”

“Stocks and bonds, mostly. They actually turned out richer than their noble cousins.”

“Oh.”

Ivan couldn’t decide whether he was amused or sympathetic. “You’re a little out of your depth here, aren’t you?”

“No way,” said Alfred, going to straighten his tie automatically. “I can be… Hell, what do you call that thing rich people do when they think they’re better than everyone?”

“Pompous?”

“Yeah, that’s the one! I can do that.”

“There’s no need,” said Ivan, smiling as they rounded lamp-lit corner onto the next boulevard. “Just mind your manners. It’s very simple.”

“Now you sound like my old man,” Alfred complained.

The Edelstein manor was one of the largest homes in Vienna’s residential districts. Walled off with brick and wrought lack iron, clouded with ivy and rose bushes, it struck a powerful silhouette against the setting sun. A uniformed man at the gate recognized them without either of them having to say a word and ushered them inside. They marched up the gravel path to the door, where there was a woman wearing a polite smile and beckoning them forward, so that she could lead them into the warmly lit halls of the house.

“Jesus,” muttered Alfred, as they passed a marble bust of an Austrian knight.

“You live at the Wolf House,” Ivan reminded him.

“I don’t live there, I just work there! And besides, it’s Signor, so it’s just him being weird, he’s not showing off.”

“Oh?” Ivan glanced at his friend. “You have an apartment in Rome.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, perhaps I should pay you a visit sometime.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow, momentarily letting his guard down enough to smile like normal. “Maybe we can trade. If you agree to join the circus, I’ll give you my address.”

“I think I will just ask Signor. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Alfred smirked. “Joke’s on you because Signor doesn’t know where I live either!”

Strange that Alfred’s own employer wouldn’t know his address. Did it have something to do with the magic lessons? Ivan had a sudden vision of what Alfred’s apartment might look like – messy, full of half-packed bags and piles of laundry and dirty dishes – but he crossed it with a drawing of a witch’s hobble that he’d seen in a book of fairytales. There would be herbs and bundles of feathers and claws dangling from the ceiling, and rats on the floor, and a cauldron, and newt’s tails in a bowl on the table. A fit of giggles came over him, much to Alfred’s confusion, but luckily they were seated and the Edelsteins arrived before Ivan was forced to explain himself.

Miss Elizabeta was a singularly beautiful woman. Tall and gracious with long, elaborately curled brown hair and warm green eyes. She was a stark contrast with her fair-skinned, dark-haired husband. He was ever-so-slightly shorter than her, and slimmer – more delicate in appearance. He wore a pair of spectacles like Alfred, but Ivan noticed that Mr. Edelstein’s glasses has no lenses. He didn’t need them to see it at all. It was all for the style.

Alfred swallowed his nervousness, took off his gloves, and shook their hands.

“Signor has told me so much about you,” said Elizabeta warmly, clutching Alfred’s hand in both of hers. “What an unusual scar!”

Alfred pulled his hand back, flushed.

“Signor told me that you’re living alone,” the lady continued, a laugh in her voice. “Is it a new scar? Did you try to cook for yourself?”

“No,” said Alfred defensively. “I can cook just fine.”

“An old scar,” Elizabeta guessed. “Do you remember it?”

“I mean –”

“Forgive my wife,” said Roderich Edelstein, frowning as he took his seat and signaled the servers. “She is so fascinated with scars and forgets that some of them are embarrassing to their bearers.”

“Well!” said Elizabeta, allowing them to sit in turn. “If it embarrasses him, I can show off some of my own scars! Then it won’t be so bad. See –” She lifted her arm. “– I got this one when I was seven. I fell out of a tree and cut up my whole arm, it goes nearly up to my shoulder. And I have a matched pair on my knees from falling out of a saddle when I was twelve. And there’s one here, on my palm, you see, from the time I put my hand through a window.”

“How did that happen?” Ivan asked curiously.

“I was trying to punch one of Roderich’s cousins,” she replied. “Gilbert was always too forward.”

Roderich pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am going to lose my appetite.”

“You’re right!” Elizabeta declared. “Discussing rotten eggs over dinner will only leave a bad taste in your mouth. Do you boys care for wine? We have beer or whiskey – or vodka, if you prefer.”

Ivan decided that he liked Elizabeta.

“I would love a drink!” said Alfred, who likewise appeared to be cheered up. “Whiskey, if you got it!”

She smiled at him indulgently. “A bold choice. Someone get this boy a drink!”

Drinks came and they talked. At first, the conversation was fairly one-sided. Elizabeta was downright aggressive in her attempts to be friendly while Roderich remained aloof. Alfred seemed to be figuring out the correct way to approach them. But by the time their glasses were refilled and dinner was set out, things grew warmer. The lights outside dimmed, from violet to indigo to black. They traded stories about Romulus di Silva. Alfred deftly avoided Elizabeta’s prying into his personal life, with some unwitting help from Roderich, who seemed to consider it rude.

Ivan didn’t drink but he did observe. Now that he was paying attention, he did see the faint outline of a scar around the ring finger of Alfred’s left hand. He also saw the way that Alfred always looked Elizabeta in the eyes and smiled, the way he always nodded and agreed with Roderich when the man made a proposal. He heard the way that, after his third drink, Alfred’s voice seemed to grow richer and more persuasive. But Ivan was sure that the whiskey had nothing to do with it.

“Signor is thinking that we put it in black and white,” Alfred was saying. “So – should you agree to do business with us – then those would be your major constraints. But other than that, all bets are off. I can get you lists of the acts and the blueprints we have so that you know the kind of environments you’d be working in but –”

“A black and white circus?” Elizabeta’s nose wrinkled. “How dull.”

“No, no,” said Roderich eagerly. The wine had gone to his cheeks, staining them a pleasant pink. “He’s onto something. It would be very elegant.”

“Exactly!” said Alfred. “He says it should be like stepping into a fairytale, and the lights like a curtain of stars!”

Elizabeta put her hand on her chin, leaning heavily on her elbow.

“Ivan, what do you think?”

He started. “My opinion doesn’t really matter. I’m not part of the circus.”

“But surely you must be!” Elizabeta exclaimed. “Why else have you come all this way?”

Ivan had to look away in order to prevent himself from blushing.

“I only came because I feared what Alfred might do if he were unleashed in Vienna with no instruction,” he replied.

“What the hell?” Alfred pretended to be hurt. “You promised you were going to run off with me!”

“I did no such thing,” he told Elizabeta, who was giggling.

“Ivan reads fortunes. Di Silva offered him his own tent and he didn’t take it!” said Alfred. “Can you believe that?”

“It’s quite generous,” said Roderich, nodding absently. “Can’t say I believe in magic myself.”

“Oh but I believe in magic,” his wife said. Her accent thickened with the memory. “In Hungary, we have many people who can do fortunes and find things that you’ve lost, even changing the weather. My father had a friend who went to a very prestigious university to learn how to take care of animals but my mother always said, ‘Why do you need him to care for our horses?’ She knew an old woman who could tell exactly what was wrong with an animal just by listening to it breathe and knew a thousand remedies for their ills. She cared for our horses until the day she died. She came to our wedding, Roderich, do you remember?”

She smiled at her husband. He smiled back, enchanted. It was clear to Ivan that, despite their differences, the Edelsteins were genuinely in love.

“Huh,” said Alfred, “you’re in the know?”

That phrase again. The couple came back to Earth.

“What was that, dear?” Elizabeta asked politely. “I’m sorry. I get so distracted with home.”

Alfred beamed. “No trouble, ma’am.”

“Please,” said Roderich, sipping from his glass again. “Continue with your proposal.”

And just like that, it was as if a spell had been broken. Within minutes, desserts appeared on the table and cups were refilled. In half an hour, Alfred sealed the deal with the Edelsteins: They would use their immense resources and connections to provide for the circus. Elizabeta offered to do the costume design herself, while Roderich was already preparing lists of architects and designers, even chefs. Alfred left them a business card and told them to write to the Wolf House – and visit, when they could.

It was quite late when they departed. The streets were near silent. Ivan felt the need to keep his voice down when they walked.

“That was impressive,” he told Alfred. “How much of it was charm and how much of it was – well, charm?”

Alfred shrugged, pulling his gloves from his pocket. There was a faint, lingering smile on his face, like he couldn’t help but be pleased with his efforts. “Eh. About half and half, I’d say. They seem really nice so I didn’t have to work really hard on them. I just had to talk like normal. You know what’s funny? Rich people aren’t so bad. Crazy but not a bad crazy.”

“You don’t like rich people?” And he’d called his father a cheapskate, Ivan recalled. It must have been a complicated relationship.

“I don’t _not_ like rich people,” said Alfred. “It’s just that I don’t get it. All that money and some of ‘em still find the time to be miserable. Besides, I’m no good at –” He changed course, cheeks pink. “I mean, hey, at least we got them to work with, right?”

Ivan hummed in agreement. All in all, it had been a successful trip. He’d learned some things about his new friend. Still, it didn’t seem like enough. Alfred was friendly and open but in all the wrong ways. He had said his charms weren’t working on Ivan, so why was he still so hard to read?

“Where did you get that scar?” Ivan asked.

Alfred grinned. “Magic lessons. I had to chop off a finger and practice growing it back. Leaves a mark after awhile.”

“Hah,” said Ivan dryly. “Very well, I’ll find out for myself.”

Alfred pulled the gloves back on as they passed through the warm orange light of a streetlamp, giving Ivan one last glimpse of the scar. Funny, he thought, with the realization dawning on him: It almost looked like a wedding ring.

* * *

As the two young men returned to their hotel, a stranger came to call at the Wolf House.

He introduced himself: “I’m an old friend of Wang Yao.”

Ever the generous host, Romulus di Silva invited him in for a meal.

They talked while they ate. Di Silva learned that his guest was born in the Hermit Kingdom of Korea. His father was a fisherman. His mother had worked to sell her husband’s catches at a local market. He had an older brother. His family was gone now.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Signor di Silva. “Has it been hard for you? You came all this way.”

His guest shrugged. He was quite young, with a fine handsome face and thick jet-colored hair, slicked back but for one wild strand that seemed to fly off his head. He was tall, lean but muscled – “strapping” was a good word for him. He wore a clean-cut suit and a pair of expensive shoes. His eyes were dark and glittering.

“I came all this way,” di Silva’s guest agreed genially. “But I’m used to the traveling. It’s not hard for me anymore.”

“Does a fisherman’s son have many opportunities to travel?”

The guest smiled, revealing a row of pearly teeth.

“I’m a man of many hats,” he replied. “I do a little bit of everything.”

“Is that so?” asked di Silva, intrigued. “Is that how you came to know my dear friend Yao?”

“Yes, indeed it is!”

“So, my new friend, what is it that you do? I’m afraid Yao has never spoken of you. Then again, he is not always talkative. I have known him since I was a young man and sometimes I feel I am no better informed of him than I was on the day I first shook his hand.”

The guest shrugged again. “The old man is like that. I wouldn’t take it too personally. As for me? I’m here about the circus. Is it true that it’ll be in all black and white?”

“Yes! To keep our guests from being distracted by all the flashy colors!”

“Interesting,” said the guest, who knew perfectly well that Wang Yao would never have come up with such an idea. The colorless circus – that was all Kirkland, no doubt. “Well, I’ve always looked good in black. So, are you hiring?”

Di Silva laughed. “I like you! You are a man who knows what he wants. That’s good, very good! Well, let’s think – can you charm snakes?”

“I am incredibly charming, so I think I can manage it.”

“No but we have a snakecharmer already,” murmured di Silva. “He is here now – all the way from Egypt! Forgive me, my friend. My assistant is away on an errand for me. I am a scatterbrained old man without his help.”

"Well, I'm sure a man as great as yourself doesn't need all that much help. But your assistant must be impressive if you rely on him so much. Does he have a name?"

"Alfred," said di Silva, still distracted by the guest's purposeful flattery and his own thoughts. "So, not a snakecharmer. What about a fire-eater? I have been thinking about hiring one."

"Sure," said the guest. "Whatever you need."

Di Silva snapped his fingers. "I have it! A contortionist!"

His guest laughed. "Sorry, sir, but I'll have to draw the line here. I hate wearing tights."

Di Silva smile warmed in delight.

"Perfect, wonderful! A fire-eater, then. Are you sure that this is something you can do?"

"Of course! Give me some time to work on my act. I'll check back with you once it's prepared and you can see what you think. What do you say?"

But di Silva slapped a hand to his forehead.

"I'm sorry, my friend! All this time you were here and I completely forgot to ask for your name, haven't I?"

The guest had been wondering when he would catch on. He smiled.

"The name is Im Yong Soo. Pleasure to be of service."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright alright alright ~ numero tres! I'm making good progress considering that I had five chapters up on Tumblr before this. The arrival of my son, Im Yong Soo, makes this one a special delight for me lol. 
> 
> Happy reading! I hope you enjoyed!


	4. the illusionist

Summer came to Rome and with it, a litany of strange characters. As tourists poured in from across the continents to see the sights, Ivan’s new piece began to take shape in his mind. He wrote letters to his sister, assuring her that he was alright and that Rome was better than he ever dreamed it would be. The Wolf House held dinner parties on a weekly basis. Alfred – and by extension, Ivan – had an invitation to every single one of them.

The most regular feature was the Edelsteins, who were making frequent trips to Italy now that the work was truly underway. Roderich had used his family connections to obtain early opening locations for the circus: Their first performances were due to take place in London on the All Hallows. Elizabeta, meanwhile, produced a mountain of sketches and fabric samples in more shades of black and white than Ivan ever realized were possible. But the other performers and their ilk were the real stars: One night in mid-June, they entertained a Turkish big-cat tamer who wore a mask at all times. (“To enhance my mystique!” he explained.) They had visits from an Egyptian snakecharmer who never said a word, and a pair of Swiss acrobats who – Ivan was fascinated to learn – were also world-renowned marksmen. Once, their only guest was an intriguing Chinese man who wore all red. Alfred didn’t seem to like him but on that night, Ivan indulged in di Silva’s wines more than was wise, and afterwards, he didn’t remember much of what happened.

Then, there was Im Yong Soo.

“I’m the one who’s going to be setting himself on fire,” he told them cheerfully, by way of introduction. “But I promise that I only burn up the people that I like. You should be safe, Giant Man,” he added, regarding Ivan with mild interest. “Heavens above, what do they feed you people in Russia?”

Without blinking, Ivan replied, “Mostly bears, and pickled fish, and icicles.”

“Huh. Explains a lot. What about you, blondie? What’s your act?”

Beside Ivan, Alfred merely shrugged. “I just do what Signor tells me. Nothing to it.”

“Waste of your obvious talents, if you ask me,” said Yong Soo, pushing a loose strand of hair against his head only for it to fall out again in seconds. “And really, who could pass up the chance to run away with the circus?’

“See, that’s what I keep telling my friend over here!” Alfred exclaimed, patting Ivan on the arm. “But he just won’t listen.”

“You two known each other very long?”

“Only two months,” said Alfred. “But he’s been a huge help with my work. Now I understand why people want personal assistants in the first place.”

“You only think you have so much work because you’re too lazy to write your own letters,” Ivan said. But Yong Soo gave him such a knowing look that he began to feel embarrassed. Luckily, di Silva had arrived to change the subject.

As June faded, the talk began to center on “the illusionist.” This yet-to-be-decided actor and their show had become almost mythical in scope. Di Silva was convinced that they would be the star of the circus, even more popular than the acrobats or the big-cat show.

“I asked your father to do it,” their patron said to Alfred at one dinner, after they’d closed a deal on a theater to hold auditions. “But he told me, ‘No, you idiot, I’m retired now, I will not go up on stage for anyone.’ And I would ask you to do it, my boy, but I have seen your illusions and I will tell you now, honestly, they are not up to standards.”

Alfred grinned, as usual, but there was a faint wince in his eyes. Ivan knew that, unconsciously, Signor had wounded him.

“Still,” said the old Italian, sighing. “I don’t know what I would do without you. I will get you something nice for your birthday. What do you want?”

Ivan looked at Alfred. “Your birthday is soon?”

“Yeah,” Alfred replied, sheepish but pleased. “The fourth, actually.”

“A true American!” di Silva teased. “Born on your independence day, yes?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then the occasion should be doubly festive. I will get you some present – a surprise!”

“No need, Signor,” Alfred assured him. He was still cheerful but it was starting to seem forced. You don’t have to go out of your way.”

“But I mean it! How could I have accomplished so much without your help? I must get you something, as a way to thank you for all you have done. You are a star, my boy, a shining star that guides others when they cannot see. I have never been more productive than when you are here. It is no trouble –don’t worry, dear boy, don’t worry. Your birthday only comes once a year, after all!”

Alfred’s face softened, his smile stretching incredulously. “Thank you, Signor.”

The dinners all seemed to blend together after a while, but it was conversations like this one that stood out the most in Ivan’s mind.

* * *

“Hey, Ivan, you want to do me a favor?” 

They were lounging around in Ivan’s flat. Since Alfred still refused to reveal his address, this was a place where they spent a good deal of their free-time. It was a scorching afternoon, the pavement outside cracking as it baked in the Roman sun. They’d practically cleaned out Ivan’s ice-box and thrown open all the windows, but nothing seemed to help. Their glasses of water sweated as the ice shrank, the residue running into puddles across the tables. Alfred, who was meant to be replying to Signor’s correspondences, had abandoned the effort and was lying across the couch with his shirt open instead. It was distracting Ivan from his own work; he’d been pretending that his living room didn’t exist and wasn’t very visible from his kitchen for the past fifteen minutes.

But at the same time, he couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t heard. Ivan forced his eyes to his manuscript. “Hmm?”

“Can you give me a reading on Yong Soo?”

That was not what he’d expected Alfred to say at all. “Why?”

Alfred sighed. “I don’t know. There’s just something off about him, is all.”

“You think that he’s…” Ivan hesitated, working his way around the phrase. “…in the know?”

“Of course he is,” said Alfred. Ivan finally looked up at him, only to see his eyes drift shut. “But I don’t know what he wants with the circus. Maybe he’s my opponent.”

“Your –?” Ivan turned fully around. “An opponent for what?”

Perhaps it was the heat that made him malleable. He had never mentioned anything like this before. Ivan was sweating bullets but that didn’t matter. He could not waste this opportunity. Once he had a glimpse of Alfred’s world, he was possessed with the desire to know more and more.

“Magic lessons,” Alfred mumbled. “I didn’t learn all this crap for fun and games. It’s like a big test. I have an opponent and I’m supposed to beat him… somehow.”

“And you think this person is Yong Soo?”

“I don’t know,” Alfred groaned. “It’s too hot to think but… look. Please, Ivan? I’ll owe you.”

Ivan studied him, considering.

“Alright,” he said. “Give me a minute.”

He retrieved his deck and spread out the cards in a long arc across the kitchen table. He held a hand over them, waiting, asking. Who is Im Yong Soo? He wanted to ask, How do I get through to Alfred that I just want to help him? But that sort of reading was probably better done in privacy.

Ivan drew three cards: the Hermit, the Ten of Swords, the Five of Cups.

“Come and look at this.”

Reluctantly, Alfred drew himself up off the couch and stood beside Ivan at the table. As always, he put a hand on Ivan’s shoulder to balance himself as he leaned over to examine the cards. And as always, Ivan used a considerable amount of his willpower to prevent himself from acting embarrassed in any way. Physical contact was merely Alfred’s way but it meant something to Ivan now. And then there was the fact that one of them was half-undressed.

“This card is usually for wisdom,” Ivan explained, indicating the Hermit. “Or loneliness, perhaps. But in this case, it may also refer to the place of his birth.”

“How so?”

“Korea – the Hermit Kingdom.” Ivan offered a smile.

Alfred snorted. “The cards gave you a joke?”

“Not a joke,” said Ivan. “You should know that the cards are a very serious business. It’s just a funny little coincidence, that’s all.”

“What about these two?” Alfred leaned down, putting his face a bit closer to Ivan’s. And Ivan swallowed hard but went on as if nothing was wrong.

“They’re concerning. The Ten of Swords refers to a great tragedy or a sense of despair – usually, the lowest point in a person’s life. But I wasn’t asking about his past when I pulled this card. In relation, the Five of Cups can mean pessimism or a lack of fulfillment.”

Alfred frowned. “That’s – dark. I wouldn’t have guessed from the way he acts.”

“No,” Ivan agreed. “As to your question, the only really powerful card in this set is the Hermit. Can you tell me anything else about your opponent?”

A sigh followed this. Alfred hung his head. His hair brushed Ivan’s cheek.

“Like I said, I don’t really know. My dad only told me that I was supposed to participate in this big important game, except he never told me the rules or anything about when it starts or how I’m supposed to win.”

“What kind of game has no rules?” Ivan framed his question to the kitchen window, trying to give himself some space before his willpower totally evaporated.

“Magic games,” Alfred replied, but without any humor. He straightened up at last, giving Ivan room to breathe again. “Sorry. This was a waste of time.”

“No, it wasn’t,” said Ivan. On impulse, he followed Alfred up, standing to meet him, unwilling to let him get away this time. The heat brought out unexpected sides of people and Ivan knew that if this was what it took to understand, he would do it. He was always getting so close before one of them pulled away and if this went on for much longer, it was liable to drive him mad. “I’m your friend, Alfred. I can help you, if you let me.”

For a moment, Alfred wouldn’t look at him. Ivan worried that he’d said something wrong.

Then, a mischievous light came into Alfred’s eyes and Ivan could’ve kicked himself.

“So, is this you agreeing to run away with the circus?”

Ivan smacked him on the head.

“Come on!” Alfred teased, dodging another blow as he threw himself back down onto the couch. “It can be your birthday gift to me!”

“You’re already leeching off my hospitality,” Ivan replied, sitting back at the table and flipping his notebook back open. “Don’t you think I’ve been generous enough?”

“I’ll get through to you one of these days, Ivan.”

 _I’m sure you will,_ thought Ivan grimly. _And to think you still believe that your charm doesn’t work on me._

* * *

Alfred’s birthdays had never been very exciting. His mother wasn’t the celebratory type and with his father’s work schedule, there was never much time for cake or presents. So when Ivan took him out to lunch and didn’t even make him pay for the meal – “Don’t get too excited. It is only your birthday once a year, after all,” he said, frowning over the bill – and di Silva presented him with a new wristwatch – “Perhaps this way you’ll be on time for our meetings!” he said with a wink – it was nearly enough to make Alfred cry with gratitude.

Er, privately, of course.

Three days later, he was still riding on this boost of optimism that their kindness brought on. The only thing that could make the week better was if they finally found their illusionist. Weeks of blood, sweat and tears had gone into creating this audition: Renting out a Roman theater, collecting contracts and calling in favors, writing letters and telegrams and managing the transportation… But after all this, the circus would be practically complete. It was all just atmosphere and details after this – nothing Alfred would have to deal with, thank goodness.

At two PM, the theater’s lobby was full of hopefuls. Some carried cages or equipment and all fanned themselves with flyers and handkerchiefs. Most had come in costume, a few accompanied by their lovely assistants. Alfred called out numbers one by one and led them from the buttery summer light of the atrium into the darkened theater.

It was marginally cooler within. Elizabeta Edelstein and di Silva were set up with a table near the stage, set with glasses of water and notebooks spread out between them, along with a few of Elizabeta’s fabric samples. The stage was bare; di Silva informed each candidate that they were to use as little of their equipment as possible. This turned out to be a deal-breaker for some of them.

“How am I supposed to perform in these conditions?” one disgruntled applicant demanded. “No mirrors, no curtains? They will see everything!”

“If you require flashes and bangs to make a good show, then I am not interested,” di Silva barked back. “The exit is to your left!”

As the afternoon wore on, more and more applicants were dismissed. Some only lasted a minute or two under di Silva’s scrutiny. It was easy to forget that under his big friendly exterior was a serious artist – a real drill-sergeant, who would accept nothing but the best.

Alfred realized the problem when di Silva turned away a perfectly competent and well-mannered illusionist, for no reason that the man was “lacking in something.” Now he started to get nervous. Di Silva had attended no less than four of Arthur Kirkland’s shows before his retirement; Alfred had vivid memories of back-stage parties, where di Silva would pat his head and tell him fondly how much he’d grown, before Alfred was dismissed so that the adults could talk without a little boy clinging to their ankles. Di Silva had been spoiled by Arthur’s superior magic, the _real_ magic, not just flimsy tricks of lightning and smoke. He wanted a magician; he wanted Arthur Kirkland in the circus. The problem was that there was only one other man on Earth who could match the skill of Alfred’s father, and that man preformed for no one.

The seats in the atrium thinned as the hopefuls dispersed. One after the other, dismissed. Elizabeta was getting agitated too, tapping her pens to a marcher’s beat. The sun lingered stubbornly over the atrium skylight, turning everything to gold, turning the air heavy as their applicants failed not to sweat under the pressure. Alfred’s stomach rumbled at the thought of going out into the fresh air, the streets full of good Italian food. Maybe he could even drop by Ivan’s place after work. He frowned at his clipboard, struggling to relocate the place they’d left off.

“Uh – number twenty-three?”

A man stood up.

At first, Alfred wasn’t paying attention. Not to mention that the man was sort of small – shorter than Alfred, at least, but a lot of people were shorter than Alfred. Only, once he brought his eyes up and saw the applicant, he couldn’t seem to stop looking.

The main thing that stood out, at least at first, was that – like Yong Soo – he seemed to have come to them from the Far East. He was neat, composed, fair-skinned but dark as a shadow. Even his clothes were odd, more like a robe than a suit. When Alfred’s eyes found him, he seemed to take it as a cue and made his way over. There was an intriguing lightness about him; his footsteps were nearly silent as he crossed the atrium. Even without an extravagant costume, this illusionist already stood out from the other applicants – and not even just because he was better-looking than all of them put together.

Only too late did Alfred remember he had a job to do and cleared his throat.

“Um, uh – this way, please.”

In silence, the man followed while Alfred directed him backstage. Alfred tried hard to act like he had with the others, reminding himself that he wasn’t there to ogle. He was there to work. It didn’t help much, and he nearly tripped himself getting back into the theater, sliding into his seat at the back as quickly as possible.

For a moment, Alfred couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his own breathing.

The illusionist took center stage.

“Name please,” said Elizabeta, tapping her pens.

“Honda,” he replied. “Kiku Honda, in Western order.”

His accent was faint but noticeable. He had a surprisingly deep but pleasant sort of voice. Under the clear lights on stage, Alfred had an even better view of him. He was – and there was no other way to put it – absolutely perfect. Despite his loose-hanging clothes, he was all clean edges and fine lines, everything from his hair to his shoes in perfect order. Though his appearance was delicate, there was an intense darkness in his eyes. He seemed to be watching the entire room and Alfred felt the sudden need to slump in his seat, making himself smaller to avoid his gaze, though logically he knew that the illusionist wasn’t looking at him at all. His hands were folded politely in front of him – the look of a man lying in wait. This one was going to be different.

“And where have you come from, my friend?” asked di Silva.

“I was born in Kyoto.”

“Japan! So far!” said di Silva, nudging Elizabeta. She smiled back indulgently. “News of my circus has reached all corners of the Earth, didn’t I tell you?”

“Yes, Signor, you certainly did. Where did you study, Mr. Honda?”

“I lived abroad for a time, but I have been taking lessons since I was a child,” said Kiku Honda. He offered no further explanation. Elizabeta frowned and looked at di Silva, who only had eyes for the illusionist. She tapped the pen at the corner of her mouth now.

“How did you come to learn about this opportunity?”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” said Kiku Honda. “I am merely here to put my studies into practice.”

“But who –”

“Now, now, Eliza, my heart,” said di Silva. “Let the man be. He will not give up his secrets so easily; I am sure his teachers have taught him well. But he has come all this way to impress us and I intend to see it. Go on, my friend! Show us what you can do.”

Kiku closed his eyes and took a deep bow, bending at the waist. He didn’t know exactly why but Alfred’s heart began to race, knuckles whitening against the armrest of his chair.

The illusionist straightened up, and his audition began.

The stage manager had given Elizabeta a vase of flowers as a decoration. Already, the blossoms seemed to wilt and fade in the heat of the day. But Kiku Honda started here, reaching down to pull out a red rose from the bouquet. He held the stem between his fingers, as if studying it. With his free hand, he plucked a petal’s edge – and tugged.

It unraveled, becoming a rain of petals that hung, suspended, in the air around him.

Kiku lifted the singular petal between his fingers. The rest followed, as if they were controlled on strings. He twisted and pulled, moving fluidly until he had created a delicate red chain. He dropped it to the floor; it made a solid thump that didn’t match its size, and sent up a cloud of ruby dust. When Kiku bent to take the chain again, it was now made of white paper, which he began to fold in his hands. His fingers were deft, practiced; it was hard to tell what he was doing at first. After a few moments, he held a single paper crane in his hands.

He threw it into the air and it became a real white bird.

The creature cooed helplessly, disoriented, as it fluttered down and landed on Elizabeta’s notebook. And Alfred had seen enough of these acts to recognize the difference between a bird that was trained and one that was merely docile in nature. There was no trick in this act. No smoke or mirrors, no unnecessary flourishes. Kiku moved only when it was required of him to change the shape of the things in his hands.

Alfred’s heart leapt into his throat. _It was real._ The scar on his finger seemed to burn anew.

“Bravo!” said Elizabeta, clapping her hands together. As if on cue, the bird transformed back into paper and she giggled. “How wonderful. Signor, wasn’t that impressive?”

Di Silva merely studied the illusionist, looking him up and down and rubbing his chin.

“A very good first act,” he said. “Simple, elegant – yes. But your clothes. How am I to know that you are not hiding anything up your sleeves?”

On stage, Kiku blinked. His eyes averted in a way that was almost shy as he began to shrug himself out of his coat. Under the long jacket, he wore a simple white button-up. He rolled the sleeves to his elbows, but as he did, the legs of his pants twisted and tightened, becoming more like a regular suit. Even his shoes changed shape.

The newly dressed Kiku Honda bowed once again.

Di Silva nodded. “Very well. Once again, please.”

Instead of repeating his old act, Kiku took up his discarded jacket from the stage and tossed it into the air. It became a pair of blackbirds, which crowed as they jostled against each other, trying to find an exit from the theater. Feathers lined the stage where they had once been.

Kiku picked up a discarded feather and turned it over against his palm until it became a small white flower – a chrysanthemum, this time. He presented the flower to Elizabeta, politely, like he wasn’t sure what else to do with it. Elizabeta beamed as she accepted, tucking it behind her ear.

Di Silva said, “Flowers, feathers, paper. Can you work with sturdier materials? Perhaps glass or metal?”

“If you lend me something of yours, I can demonstrate,” Kiku replied.

But di Silva waved him off. He had the mad, solemn light of inspiration in his eyes now.

“No need, no need, my friend. I believe in your skill. These other hacks do not come close to what you can do. I just wanted to ask so that I know how to design your tent. Of course, you will have input as well. If you ever need something – anything in this world – do not hesitate to ask. Of course you will become a part of our circus.”

The illusionist bowed. “I am honored. Thank you.”

“You must not be so formal,” di Silva told him. “You call me ‘Romulus’ and do not be afraid to talk to my assistant for help. Alfred!”

 _I’m not ready_ , Alfred thought, even as he went automatically to his feet. _Jesus Christ, I’m not ready._

“Y-yes, Signor?”

“Send the rest of them home,” said his boss, not noticing anything wrong. “We have our illusionist. The auditions are over.”

“Of course, Signor.”

He moved out of the aisle so fast that he nearly threw himself over. He hoped that Kiku hadn’t seen it. _He can’t see me yet, I’m not ready_. But it was hard to tell if Kiku had really noticed him at all, since Elizabeta was now speaking to him, asking about tent design and costumes. Alfred wasn’t paying attention anymore. He could taste his own anxiety.

When he reached the entrance, he risked one last look at the stage. Elizabeta was arguing with di Silva one whether Kiku should wear black or white.

“No, no!” she said. “ _Black_! Maybe a little accent with white or pale gray but his color is black. The tent can be white to balance but he’s already so pale. We can’t put this poor man in white, he’ll look like a ghost!”

Without saying anything, Kiku found another black feather. He held it to his shirt, just above his heart. The feather bled out like a waterfall, draining of color, and within moments, Kiku stood before them holding a white feather, dressed head to toe in black.

Elizabeta looked triumphantly at di Silva, who laughed out loud for the first time since the auditions had begun.

Alfred slammed the door on himself in his haste to leave.

The rest of the illusionists looked at him strangely. Only then did Alfred realize that he was flushed and wide-eyed, that his glasses were still crooked from when he’d fallen over just then. He must look like he’d seen a ghost – or worse.

He didn’t even bother to put on his smile. He poured all his limited power into his voice and said, “Show’s over, fellas. Go home.”

A look of blank confusion came over their faces as they stood and filed out. Alfred felt sick with himself, with the thought of what he was about to face. He was nothing, he had nothing. His heart was a mess, stomach churning with fear.

Throughout his life, Alfred had been told that he’d need strength for the day he met his opponent. At first, it didn’t mean anything. His father’s “training” was less preparation for what he might face and more an exercise in callousness. The scar on his finger was just a scar. There was no way that a game with such vague rules existed. It was a story that his father made up to scare him into obedience when he was young. Those long nights, struggling to stay awake and finish an exercise; holding back tears when the pain was too much; traversing Europe and sleeping backstage while his father drank with the managers, only to come home to their manor in the countryside where his father drank alone in his study – it was all for nothing, wasn’t it? He hadn’t really believed in magic.

But now Alfred knew his opponent, and everything was different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't post this one right with the others because there was quite a bit of reworking that I wanted to do. I thought that my first attempt was a bit clumsy but I'm much happier with this rewrite! I still couldn't quite get Kiku's clothes right... there's a picture of Kiku in Taisho-era clothing that I used for inspiration but I can't find it anywhere now... oh well. 
> 
> Ivan's officially got it bad!! Alfred and Kiku finally meet!! I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!


	5. not like chess

The day after the auditions, Ivan paid a visit to the Wolf House. Alfred wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there the next day, or the day after that one, either.

* * *

 

It had now been seven days and di Silva was not at all concerned as to his assistant’s well being.

“He has worked so hard for me these past few months,” he said, as porcelain plates were laid out for a dinner party. “I will let him take a well-earned rest. There will be a bit less to do now that we have the illusionist booked. But –” he added, grinning at Ivan, “there is still room for a fortuneteller, if you find that you are in need of new work.”

It was the first time in almost three months that Ivan had gone more than twelve hours without seeing Alfred. Not since those first three days, when he'd fought with himself to stay away. Now he kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see Alfred waltzing in, and then getting disappointed when it was inevitably someone else. The constant head-turning made Ivan jittery. He worried and worried about what Alfred must have gotten up to – was it magic? Was it mundane? Had Alfred simply gotten bored of him? Would they never see each other again? But they hadn’t even said goodbye and besides, di Silva was under the impression that Alfred was still his employee... so he must be coming back right? Round and round he went, no stone left unturned in his mind. It was an irrational train of thought and Ivan couldn’t seem to help himself.

Men who quit drinking or smoking were known to have withdrawal symptoms. Ivan had witnessed it, thinking that it must be a terrible experience. Now he imagined that they must feel a bit like this. It did not make him empathize; the comparison only served to further annoy him.

As it was, he didn’t feel particularly interested in staying at the Wolf House. Today’s dinner party would be smaller and more intimate than the usual, so Ivan didn’t think he would be too uncomfortable. And he didn’t want to seem rude by refusing. Wouldn’t dining alone be worse in this situation? He couldn’t decide. It was just there was no point if Alfred wasn’t going to be here and di Silva’s cavalier attitude only worsened Ivan’s mood.

When di Silva wasn't looking, Ivan took one of the wait staff aside and asked, “By chance, have you got any vodka?”

The man nodded, wide-eyed.

“Get me a glass. A large glass. Please,” he added, when the man looked more startled by his abrupt tone.

It was the least Ivan could do to make this evening bearable.

The Edelsteins arrived soon after, along with Im Yong Soo, who appeared to have met up with them along the way. Elizabeta was dressed in emerald green; she was radiant as a jewel beside the two men, who were clad in black despite the sweltering July evening. Roderich had a heavy flush to his cheeks and a sheen of sweat on his brows; Im Yong Soo smiled with all his teeth.

“No Alfred again?” Elizabeta said, when her husband helped her into her seat.

“I’m afraid not, dearest Eliza,” replied di Silva, with his usual grandeur. “We will just have to manage without him.”

The waiter returned with a glass of clear liquid. _Thank God_ , Ivan thought. He drank deeply.

Roderich sniffed and dabbed a handkerchief at his face. “How disappointing. That boy has been slacking off these past few days. I suppose he thinks that since the auditions are through, he can simply do what he likes.”

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” said Yong Soo. “You’ve known the man longer than I have. He didn’t strike me as the lazy type.”

Di Silva laughed. “Roderich forgets he is only six years older than my Alfred!”

Elizabeta giggled and Roderich scowled.

“No, no, no,” said di Silva. “The boy is merely taking a break. He has earned it; I am not worried. When he is ready to return, he shall.”

“Besides,” Elizabeta added. “Tonight is about the circus! Ivan, have you met our illusionist yet?”

Ivan shook his head. “All I heard was that you’d managed to book one.”

“You’ll like him,” Elizabeta assured him. “He’s a bit quiet and tends to be formal, but he is very sweet once you get to know him. I’ve been working with him on his costume design, you know and –”

“Ah!” di Silva said. “Have you decided on a theme?”

“Yes, Signor. We decided to stick to the basic suit.”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Such a wasted opportunity.”

“But the tent will still incorporate cultural elements,” Elizabeta continued. “We’re thinking of putting a pair of cherry trees outside the tent.”

“No, no. It is too much work! Planting and replanting the trees.”

“Come on, Signor,” said Yong Soo, with an easy smile. “That’s a stunning lack of imagination.”

“I said nothing artificial,” the old Italian complained. “The audience will become disillusioned.”

Elizabeta glanced at her husband, who merely shrugged. Ivan got the sense that he was saying _I told you so._

“We’ll have to think of something else, then,” Elizabeta said, sighing.

She suddenly brightened.

“Oh, there you are, Kiku!”

Ivan glanced over his shoulder. Standing in the entryway was a man who could only be the legendary illusionist. He was Asian, plainly dressed, and – well – smaller than Ivan expected. Not very impressive to say the least. Kiku dipped automatically into a bow but when he straightened up, Ivan was surprised by the stoic expression on his face. He didn’t seem very happy to be here at all.

Kiku Honda was noiseless as he walked. Definitely not normal. Ivan stared at him, suspicious.

“Just the man we were hoping to see!” said di Silva. “Kiku, my friend, this is Ivan I don’t believe you have had the chance to meet.”

The illusionist dipped his head and murmured a greeting. Ivan raised his glass in response.

Di Silva frowned at them. “So cold! What a terrible first impression! We are all friends here, are we not?”

Elizabeta only smiled knowingly. “Oh, but Ivan is a bit shy. He would be much more relaxed if Alfred were here, don’t you think?”

It was a good thing Ivan wasn’t drinking at that moment because he might’ve choked. First Yong Soo – who was also grinning around the rim of his wineglass – and now this? Was he really that obvious? God, this was shaping up to be a disaster. Luckily Roderich and di Silva were still oblivious; Ivan could maintain at least a shred of his dignity.

The illusionist barely reacted, but a little crease formed in the space between his eyebrows to show that he was interested as took his seat. “You are friends with the assistant?”

“Oh, yes,” Roderich said. “Joined at the hip, as they say.”

“That’s not true." The illusionist blinked, and Ivan realized that he'd neglected his manners. He'd spoken entirely without thinking, been too defensive, too harsh. There was no real reason to be hostile and so before anyone else could react to his mistake, he added, “Though perhaps it might help if we were. Then I could drag him to his work and save Signor a bit of trouble.”

Di Silva laughed, and the air seemed to clear a bit. “You are too harsh on that boy, too harsh! Poor Kiku will get the wrong idea!”

“Please,” said Roderich. “Those two are complete opposites. It’s best that we ease him in gently or he’ll get a real shock when they meet face to face.”

“But something like that can be quite good for a relationship,” Elizabeta said. “Opposites attract and the like, yes? It’s not healthy to only be with people who are exactly like us. Without change, we can’t expect to grow.”

“Maybe Kiku can convince him to show up to work,” grumbled Roderich. “What kind of assistant does he think he is?”

“Alfred will appear when he is ready,” said di Silva firmly.

“He didn’t even give an address! Surely that’s a breach of contract.”

Di Silva merely shrugged. “A man is entitled to his privacy. I do not ask for Alfred’s home address and he does not give it, which is his right. Come now, Roderich, don’t get so upset. Your stomach will be in knots and you won’t be able to enjoy the wonderful meal I’ve prepared for you!”

“Still, it is a shame that Alfred didn’t show,” said Yong Soo. Something about his voice made Ivan's skin crawl. Their fire-eater was still smiling, like nothing was wrong, but there was a glint in his eyes that made Ivan think of a fox about to pounce. “I have a feeling that Kiku and Alfred would get along just perfectly.”

The thing was that Ivan actually agreed with Roderich on this point. Kiku had barely spoken ten words and Ivan could already tell that this was a classic case of a foil: Kiku was dark where Alfred was light, quiet where Alfred was loud, cool where Alfred was electric. In one of Ivan’s novels, they might have been rivals. Still, Yong Soo spoke with such conviction. It was like he knew something that he wasn't telling. Maybe it was nothing and Ivan was overreacting. He remembered the Hermit’s lined face, those odd clear eyes staring out from the painted tarot deck.

Something was missing. Ivan had one foot in a world he still didn’t understand after two months of trying, and he needed Alfred to bridge that gap for him. _Damn_ that smiling American bastard, damn him and his pretty blue eyes.

Conversation floated around him. Ivan stewed in his thoughts, in his worries, picking at his food and speaking only when someone asked for his opinion. He made do by studying the illusionist, trying to get a read on him. But to his continued disappointment, Kiku barely opened his mouth, and wound up leaving the party around the time of the second course. He promised Elizabeta that he would return in the morning and that they would continue to discuss the costume. Everyone seemed disappointed but Ivan couldn’t say he was sorry to see the back of their illusionist.

When he was gone, Yong Soo turned to Ivan and lifted his glass in a private toast.

“To secrets, eh?”

Ivan frowned and clinked the glasses together. The sound billowed, too loud, drowned out the conversation, until the room had gone utterly silent. Elizabeta’s lips were moving as she made some kind of joke that caused di Silva throw his head back in laughter – but there was no sound from them at all. They seemed to move behind an invisible screen, so that they were a world apart from the two of them. Ivan blinked, and stared at Yong Soo.

“You’re like Alfred,” he said, the realization dawning. This magic was even more powerful than Alfred’s. It was just as they had suspected. “Are you his opponent?”

Yong Soo shook his head. “You don’t even really know what that means. But if it makes you feel better, it’s hard to understand when you’ve just started out. Not everybody is cut out for magic, see? Power is easy to find but refining it takes a lot more work than most people want to commit."

“Why are you here?” Ivan asked. “What do you want with this place?”

“I can tell you where Alfred is right now,” was the reply he received instead. “I won’t even make you owe me a favor.”

“And why is that?”

Yong Soo laughed. “You already did me one favor this evening, my friend.”

Considering all he had done was sit there and glower, Ivan wasn’t sure what that meant. He didn’t quite trust Yong Soo – couldn't bring himself to trust him. But at this moment, finding Alfred and knowing he was okay was more important. Ivan would take what he could get.

“Where is he?”

“He’s got an apartment further to the north. Good view of the Spanish Steps. Third floor on the right. Last door at the end of the hall.”

Ivan could see it in his head. He envisioned himself walking through Rome. He felt the wind on his back, felt the heavy summer air, tasted the stench of sweat and salt from the crowds on the steps. He saw the clean yellow stone and the rickety stairs that led to the last door on the third floor. Yong Soo had put this image in his mind – an illusion, so powerful that Ivan could almost believe it was real.

Almost.

“How did you learn Alfred’s address?” he asked.

“The same way I learned everything,” replied Yong Soo. “I read about it in a book.”

* * *

 

It was quite late when Ivan arrived. The Spanish Steps still boasted a considerable crowd - pretty young things with bottles of wine in their hands, ladies and their lovers seated close together as they shared drinks and traded stories. A beautiful scene - good inspiration. But Ivan strode past them, towards the yellow brick apartment on the end of the block. He was sure that he wouldn’t be allowed in at this hour and since Yong Soo hadn’t shown him the backdoor, Ivan had to find a way in for himself. He nearly killed himself tripping over a stray cat and narrowly avoided falling in someone’s trash, wandering around the back of the building and trying to look as inconspicuous as someone of his size and coloring could be. And once inside, he could scarcely believe that he was here at all. So many times he’d imagined this place and it turned out to be so normal. It was just an ordinary Roman apartment, hardly a place to find a magician.

He climbed the stairs to the third floor, as quietly as he could. It wouldn't do to wake any of the others with his thundering, though he wanted to run to where Alfred was and - no. He made himself walk, carefully, past each door. When he reached the last door on the end of the hall, he put his ear tot he door and heard a fluttering sound inside. Someone moving around, perhaps. Alfred?

Ivan knocked hard on the door. The sound stopped.

“Alfred, it’s me. I know you’re in there. You have until I count to ten to open up this door or I’m breaking it down. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. _Eight. Nine_. Alright, Alfred, you brought this on yourself. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. _Ten_ –”

The door opened, revealing Alfred’s face. Ivan felt nauseous, relief that his friend was alive colliding with anxiety over his appearance. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all in the four days he’d been gone. His glasses appeared to be cracked, his cheeks pinched, eyes bruised.

“How the hell did you find out where I live?” Alfred asked, squinting. “Am I hallucinating?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Ivan sourly.

“Seriously, Ivan. How?”

“Im Yong Soo told me,” he replied. Ivan wanted to keep being angry, to berate Alfred for making him worry so much, to tell him – no. “He said that he read your address out of a book. I think you were right about him. He’s your opponent.”

Alfred groaned. “No he’s not. Come inside. I’m not allowed to have guests over after dark so my landlady’s going to murder me if she sees you.”

Roman landladies were all alike. Ivan reminded himself that he was upset and refused to smile.

The apartment even messier, somehow, than Ivan’s first wild vision of it. Certainly it was no witch’s hovel but it wasn’t exactly the apartment of an overworked young man, either. Ivan thought that a stampede must have occurred, or maybe one or twelve of the stray cats had gotten in. Books were dumped everywhere, like a storm had tossed them off the shelves. Shreds of paper and fabric and – were those flower petals? – littered the ground. On the table in the kitchen were several empty bowls and plates, still coated with the remains of crumbs. There was a half-eaten loaf of bread and a nearly empty bowl of fruit on the counter but those were the only normal things in this place. At least Ivan knew that Alfred was still attempting to eat.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Ivan said. It came out a bit harsher than he’d intended. Alfred winced and he felt guilty.

“Sorry. I’ve been – uh – practicing – Jesus, Ivan, be careful! There’s still glass over there!”

Ivan had been heading for the cabinets, thinking to make tea. Two cups of strong black tea: Katyusha’s fail-proof remedy for a nervous heart. Alfred didn’t like tea but Ivan was going to make him drink it anyway, for his own good. If there was no tea in the cabinets then Ivan was going to go out and get some, lateness of the hour be damned. Now that he looked, he could see the remains of a shattered mug swept into an uneven pile on the floor. More than one, it would seem. Even the plates hadn't escaped the wreckage of Alfred's anxiety. The survivors were stacked in the sink, waiting for a wash.

“What did you do?” Ivan demanded, whirling around in time to see Alfred sink into a chair. “Do you realize how worried everyone has been?” _I thought you were gone._ “If this were any other job, you would have been fired on the spot and then what would you do?” _You’re not taking care of yourself_. “Did you even think before you decided to become a shut-in, Alfred?”

“It’s Honda.”

“What?” Ivan snapped, interrupted mid-rant.

“My opponent,” said Alfred dully, resting his cheek on the table, not looking at Ivan. “It’s the illusionist. I saw his audition.”

Ivan took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm.

“How do you know? Yong Soo is a magician, Alfred. He’s like you. It could be –”

“It’s him, okay?” Alfred sounded so miserable that Ivan shut his mouth. “I know it. I felt it.”

Ivan glanced down, to the scar on Alfred’s finger. It did seem to stand out more than before, like something had irritated the skin, but perhaps that was only because Ivan knew what he was looking for now. He stepped back, away from the glass, and leaned against the sink.

“I met the illusionist tonight,” Ivan said. “At the Wolf House. I have to say that I was not very impressed. He’s a bit small, don’t you think?”

“No,” Alfred replied. “He’s better than me. He’s…” A sigh. “…perfect.”

Ivan’s heart capsized.

Alfred lifted his head, so that Ivan could see that he was pouting. “You should've seen his audition! It's like he's not even trying! He's practically as good as my dad, which is better than I could ever hope to be. He's got me beat and the game hasn't even started."

His heart would live to sail another day, but Ivan kept his relief concealed beneath a frown.

“I thought you said that your game has no rules?”

“Yes,” said Alfred. “No? I don’t know! What does it matter what the rules are? He bends the laws of nature, he turns paper into birds!”

He really was upset, Ivan realized. Alfred looked younger now than he had at any point since the day they’d met. Ivan may not have understood the magic, or the game, but he did understand Alfred as a person. That was the part that mattered and that was something he could work with.

“So, maybe his powers work differently than yours,” said Ivan. “That’s not such a bad thing. You can play to your strengths.”

“I don’t have any strengths.”

Ivan had to roll his eyes. “You and I both know that isn’t true.”

Alfred let out a hollow laugh that made Ivan cold. He said,

“My dad always said I was unteachable. Problem was I just didn’t want to learn. Magic lessons aren’t fun, Ivan. It’s the worst. I stopped practicing ages ago because I thought… Well, I kind of thought that he was just a jackass or that maybe he was like that because he blamed me for Mom dying or something. I don’t know. He kept feeding me this line about how it was all for my own good and someday I would understand but I didn’t believe him. But yesterday, I saw this guy and all the things that he can do, and I know it's just the beginning and now I think...

“He was right about me. He was right all along.”

For a moment, there was silence.

“That's a lie,” said Ivan.

Alfred blinked at him, startled.

“Maybe he was right about some things,” said Ivan. “The game, your opponent. But he was wrong about you. Di Silva and I – we know. We see the strengths in you already. If we didn't, then do you really think that we would go through all this trouble to support you? You're not a worthless person, Alfred.”

“Have you seen this place? I –”

"I told you that I don't like liars. Do you really think I'm that much of a hypocrite?"

Alfred shifted uncomfortably. "Well, no. I'm just -"

“The problem is that you’re not focusing on the game,” said Ivan. “You're focusing too much on things that you can't change. So what if you don’t know the rules? So what if you can’t turn things into birds? You’re never going to be like the illusionist. If you live in the past and dwell on those things, then you will lose. But if you –” He took a breath, closing his eyes. “– if you would just let me help you, then maybe you would have a chance to win.”

When Alfred didn’t answer right away, Ivan opened his eyes and cracked a tentative smile.

“No rules, right? So two against one wouldn’t even be cheating.”

At first, there was no effect. Then –

“You’d really do that for me?”

 _Anything_ , thought Ivan. _Everything._  Everything had happened so fast. _God, what an idiot I am._

What he said was, “We’re friends, aren’t we? This is my job description. Well, this and killing off your character in my novel.”

That was it – the joke that got him. Tentatively, Alfred smiled back.

“Okay,” he said. He looked more like Ivan's Alfred again. “Two against one.”

“Great,” said Ivan, straightening up. Maybe it was reckless but there was no going back now. _My Alfred._  “Now let’s clean this wreckage. I’m surprised your landlady didn’t kick you out for the smell alone.”

* * *

 

When Ivan was seven years old, a fire destroyed his family home. It was a bleak midwinter night, like the inside of a snow globe that someone had turned upside down. But even the cold couldn't stop a grease fire that began in the kitchen and spread, unnoticed until it was too late, unstoppable as the curtains and the wooden beams and furniture and everything were engulfed in the flames. His sister carried him to safety; his father ran headlong into the flames to rescue his mother, but neither of them ever emerged. He and an eighteen-year-old Katyusha stood there, silent and horrified, watching everything they loved burn and crumble into ash. By the time dawn broke over the horizon and help arrived, there was nothing left to save. There was fire in Alfred too. It flared when he was excited or anxious, a fire that would reduce him to nothing if it wasn’t cooled or contained. Back then, Ivan had sworn to himself that he would never be helpless to protect the things he loved again.

Alfred sent a note to di Silva to inform him that he’d be back to work at the end of the week. Di Silva did not seem remotely surprised – and for the record, neither did Im Yong Soo, who winked at Ivan when he made his reappearance at the Wolf House.

“Hey, friend,” he said, leaning against a stairwell as Ivan stepped in the front door. “Nice work on Star Boy. I knew you could do it.”

“Were you worried,” asked Ivan, eyeing him, “that he may not come out to compete? Forfeit the game before it had even begun, perhaps?” Their voices seemed to echo in the space, but Ivan knew that there was no danger of them being overheard. The first demonstration of Yong Soo’s power had left quite an impression.

“Of course not,” the fire-eater replied. “I know how the game works. It’s all positioning.”

“So it’s like chess.”

“No, you big dummy,” Yong Soo said cheerily. “It’s not like chess at all! Alfred just needed a push and you were in the right position to give it to him.”

It would not do to cross the room swiftly. Men of Ivan’s stature couldn’t do so without looking ridiculous and men of Yong Soo’s character would not be intimidated by that kind of display. So Ivan stayed where he was, and met Yong Soo’s eyes across the room, challenging him.

“Are you spying on him?” he asked, the threat low in his voice.

“Don’t have to,” replied Yong Soo, unaffected. “He’s a real terrible liar, you know.”

There was no magic in tarot. Though Ivan was bigger and taller, Yong Soo could probably find a way to beat him. Still, Ivan had to believe that he could beat Yong Soo if it came to that. Until he knew this man’s intentions for sure, Ivan couldn’t trust him. Not if Alfred was the price he'd pay for failure.

“I’m not your enemy, pal,” said Yong Soo. “You’ve got to believe me.”

“Are you on our side?”

Yong Soo snorted. “Our side? Look, I admire your dedication but you’re out of your depth.”

“Answer me,” Ivan said. “If you please.”

“Oooh, that’s a scary look. But the truth is I’m not really on anyone’s side, my friend. It’s going to take a lot more than a death glare to convince me one way or the other, in any case.”

“Then why did you come here?” asked Ivan.

Yong Soo shrugged, grinning. “I just like games! Isn’t that enough reason?”

With that, he hopped the last few steps and crossed the atrium, his shiny black shoes clacking against the pristine floors. Ivan stood his ground, allowing his sheer physical presence to do most of the work for him. Yong Soo merely reached behind him to grab at the door handle, pushing it open. The midday sun pounded against Ivan’s back, but he did not break focus.

“Di Silva’s upstairs in his study,” said Yong Soo. “I’m heading out of Rome tomorrow, so I guess the next time I see you will be at the circus, right?”

Ivan scowled. “I suppose so.”

“See you on Opening Night, then!” Yong Soo gave a little bow. “In the meantime, send my regards to Alfred, okay? Let him know that he can reach out to me if he wants. He’ll know how. Probably, anyway.”

Yong Soo slipped past him, striding out into the Roman summer, whistling a melody.

The door swung shut, leaving Ivan alone in the atrium for a moment.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. For Alfred’s sake.

Di Silva’s study was one of the Wolf House’s smallest rooms, which was to say that it was still spacious enough for a large desk, a table, several shelves full of books and blueprints, a grandfather clock, and a globe as tall as a ten-year-old child.

“Ivan, my friend!” said the patron, barely glancing up from his desk. He was scribbling furiously across a sheet of stationary, long loopy handwriting in Italian that Ivan so complex that couldn’t have hoped to read it. “There you are! Have you heard the good news? My treasured assistant is returning. You must be glad to have your friend back, eh? I told you he would come around.”

“Yes, Signor,” said Ivan politely. “But I actually came here to ask you a favor.”

“A favor? Why, anything for you! Is it your novel?”

“No, Signor. It’s about the circus.”

Di Silva stopped writing, and looked up with a delighted smile on his face.

“Do you still have a tent open for me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright - here's the last chapter I had up on Tumblr! Took me awhile to make sure everything was alright - and chapter six should be well on its way! Life's a bit busy for me, especially right now, so I hope you'll be able to forgive more sporadic update schedules. I really am excited about this fic and hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think!


	6. shadows and stars

As the tides of August receded, Romulus di Silva’s menagerie poured into London to prepare for Opening Night. Still, a few loose ends demanded tying.

First picture this.

* * *

 

Officially, Yao was in Rome because he’d received an invitation from his apprentice. He could have refused. Actually, he’d come because he had one weakness and he’d succumbed to it. Because of that, he was here to do something that he really shouldn’t.

He met Romulus di Silva at the man’s favorite restaurant on a pale, cool afternoon. They were the brightest things in the room, with Yao’s usual red and di Silva’s suit threaded with silver, so the eye was drawn to every movement of his body. This was his version of a subdued piece of clothing. Di Silva spoke of the circus. So much of his heart was in it that one could almost believe it had been his own idea.

“But I can’t take all the credit,” he was saying, reached for the stem of his wineglass. “Where would I be without the actors? Or dear Elizabeta, or Alfred, or Roderich? Oh, and Arthur, course – but perhaps you don’t know, he’s an Englishman and despite that a good friend of mine –”

Yao resisted the urge to smile.

“– but he had the most ingenious idea that you would not approve of.”

“The black and white circus?” Yao said. “So I heard. Won’t that be a little –?”

“Mysterious?” Di Silva’s eyes twinkled. “Eye-catching, bizarre, unique? Yes, my friend, yes it will be.”

Yao was tempted to berate Kirkland for intervening, but seeing di Silva’s pleasure at the idea made him reconsider. He leaned back in his chair, amused at the idea of how much he’d stand out in this colorless circus. At least the atmosphere would suit Kiku.

“Don’t act so smug,” Yao told di Silva, as he drained his glass. “I knew you had it in you.”

“So I take it you’ll be joining us for Opening Night?”

“In London? I’ll pass.”

Di Silva called for more wine, and then pretended to be hurt by Yao’s words.

“You know, I am starting to think that you are avoiding me, old friend,” he said, winking. “When was the last time you came to one of my parties?”

“I was here in June!”

“Yes, yes, two months ago,” said di Silva. The waiter returned with a fresh bottle and filled di Silva’s cup. “It’s lucky you are interested in my circus, otherwise I don’t think I would ever see you. Before June, how long had you been away? Six months? A year? You’re even worse than Kirkland. Or maybe that is why you’re aging so well.”

Yao’s face had barely changed since the days of the Roman’s namesake. He pressed his lips together, a memory rising to the front of his mind: A charming young man with nothing in his pockets but dreams and ambition. Yao had pulled the strings of the universe for him and look where they were now. Di Silva was malleable like clay; it was a damnable shame that there was no touch of magic in him. He’d served Yao well over the years but more than that…

_No_ , his weakness whispered. It was more than that.

He pulled himself back to reality.

“Well, I’m a hardworking man,” said Yao, smiling. “You know me. I’m all business.”

“Business, business, business,” di Silva grumbled. “You worry too much, my old friend.”

“Speaking of which, I was thinking…” In one fluid motion, Yao produced a pen and paper from his sleeves, but held it under the table, out of di Silva’s line of sight. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt for you to put the circus under my name as well as yours.”

Di Silva’s eyebrows lifted. “What – paperwork? I didn’t think you were serious.”

“It would just be precautionary,” Yao assured him. “Think about it for a second. What if something happens to you?”

At this, di Silva threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“If something happens to me,” he repeated. “Are you planning my death already, old friend?”

Not planning. Anticipating. Waiting. The world would be a poorer place without Romulus di Silva’s laughter but the wager might last for decades and Yao had to accept realities. Or, he should have. Lying – even lying to yourself – was just so simple.

“Hardly! But – don’t give me that look, Silva, just consider – look at you. No family, not even any distant cousins badgering you for money. What happens when you inevitably overwork yourself and die of a heart attack? Are you just going to let the circus go up on the auction block for the sake of your pride?”

There was no need to charm him into agreeing. He’d see this as a business measure. A reasonable request, an offer from a trusted friend. He would take it, even if the idea of losing his passion project through a bureaucratic scam had crossed his mind at some point. Romulus had been betrayed before, lost before, suffered before, and none of that crushed his faith in human goodness. For this, Yao envied and pitied him.

“So you’re merely planning to outlive me,” said di Silva, chuckling still. “Oh, that is much more reasonable. Well, I suppose it can’t hurt, if you really insist. And after all, it was your idea to begin with.”

Yao had this one chance to turn back. He could have said, No, actually, I think it will be fine as it is. And besides, this late in the game it will only muddle the paperwork. But he didn’t. His selfish human heart wouldn’t let him. Di Silva had poured his soul into the circus and Yao felt that it was only right and fair for him to live, and see the results of his work.

No matter how long it took.

He said, “I took the liberty of having something drawn up, if you don’t mind.”

Di Silva shook his head.

“Are you ever caught unawares?” he asked, almost reproachful. “Does anything ever shock you? Perhaps I should’ve hired you as my fortuneteller.”

“I’d be dead before I agreed to walk around in one of your ridiculous costumes,” said Yao agreeably. “But your answer is ‘no.’ Nothing gets past me.”

Di Silva signed the paper and pushed it back across the table.

Yao smiled and crushed the stab of guilt from his heart. Sometimes it was easy to forget how little Romulus di Silva really knew. When the meal was done and they had gone their separate ways, Yao took the signed paper and pulled the heavy-handed signature from the page. He held it in his palms for a moment – not reconsidering, just so that he could reach out and remove a small black notebook from his sleeve. He flipped the book open, and pressed the name Romulus di Silva into the page.

Everything happens for a reason, you know. And sometimes, the universe just requires a little push in the right direction.

* * *

 Now, if you would, picture this.

Feliciano was eight years old, and the only things he owned were the clothes on his back and his name, which his mother had given him. “Feliciano” meant “joyful” and his older twin brother was “Lovino,” or “ruin” which seemed a bit cruel, but he was sure his mother had a good reason. She died not long after their birth and it made Feliciano sad that he couldn’t remember her at all. He imagined that she had been a beautiful lady who fell on bad circumstances.

Feliciano could read – mainly price lists and the names of his favorite foods – and he had a job so that he could earn money for himself and Lovino. His job was to train the stray cats so that they would do tricks for tourists. Lovino didn’t like their cat show very much. He was always turning away members of their audience, kicking and shouting at them until they had no choice but to go. But when Lovino frightened the tourists they would have to pick pockets for money, and that was more dangerous and usually got them in trouble.

The only person Lovino really trusted was Feliciano. For example, the night they left the orphanage, he had whined that he was hungry and complained about sleeping on the cold ground instead of in their bed. But he followed his brother and stayed with him, all through the night. In the morning, Lovino had dragged them back, but the building was gone. A fire had broken out and destroyed most of the building.

Lovino had stared at the ruin for a long while and declared, “I never liked it here anyway.”

Now they lived in the ruins of Ostia, which was Rome’s ancient port city. Lovino told him all about it; he was very smart, though the boys had never gone to school. It wasn’t an easy life but Feliciano wasn’t worried. There were lots of places to sleep and plenty of tourists to beg and stray cats to train, and besides, the Romans had lived here for a thousand years so Feliciano and Lovino would probably last a few more weeks.

When night came, he and Lovino curled up under their ruin to sleep. And when Feliciano couldn’t sleep, he watched the stars. Nights could be the worst times. Strange and dangerous people came out at night. There were monsters in the dark. But the stars were trustworthy. They were always ready to listen and willing to help.

Feliciano told him his wishes, and in return, they told him stories. It was because of the stars that Feliciano had run from the orphanage, saving their lives. And it was because of the stars that they found the Circus of Dreams.

That day, Feliciano was coming to the end of a most wonderful dream: He was at a party, the biggest and fanciest party he’d ever seen, in a great ballroom within a grand old house. People had come from all over, dressed in their best and most colorful clothes. Feliciano wore a suit that might’ve been sewn from the sky in springtime. He was taller and older in his dream – much handsomer, too. All the ladies were telling him so. He saw Lovino dressed in burned gold, with a cup of wine in his palm and a dozen offers to dance laid out before him. Girls in jewel-toned dresses laughed at his brother’s jokes and his charms. It was the most fun the twins had had in – well, ever. Feliciano had no partner but danced with himself anyway, moving around the periphery of the ballroom, as light as air. The music swelled joyfully and on the dancefloor, couples spun each other around.

There was one pair which drew his eye – a pair of handsome young men, a bit older than his dream self. One was blond and bespectacled, his suit royal blue and speckled with starlight; the other was in shades of red, a black-haired foreigner from a country that Feliciano couldn’t have named. The clash was what pulled Feliciano in at first, but what made him stare was the way they seemed to have stopped dancing and just held each other. There was something intimate about their position; Feliciano gave his affections away freely and was not afraid of things like nakedness or close contact, but seeing them now, even he felt like he was intruding on something private.

Though the room danced around them, they stayed, collected in their own little world.

Feliciano watched as they shifted, noses brushing, eyes drifting shut. Their lips were barely apart and for some reason, this made him unbelievably happy – now he saw another face in his mind, a face that he would’ve liked to kiss, a person whose presence would’ve made this the most perfect night in existence but –

Lovino shook him awake.

“Come on, idiot,” Lovino was saying. “I’m hungry, so hurry up and let’s get out of here!”

The morning was very gray and still; it had rained in the night, making the stones and the grass slick. But Feliciano’s favorite tabby had stayed in their makeshift shelter, curled up in the corner against a fractured column and an old crate of tomatoes. Even now, with Lovino stomping around and trying to clear up the evidence that they’d been there, the cat slept on. This was a good sign. Normally, Ara bolted at the first sign of trouble.

Feliciano rubbed his empty stomach and decided, “Let’s go to Trevi Fountain today.”

Lovino scoffed at him. “Why? That’s the worst place for the cats. They get nervous and they start howling and people get upset. We’ll get chased off.”

“No we won’t,” said Feliciano, certain of it. “Today’s the perfect day to visit the fountain. There’ll be lots of interesting people – lots of nice rich people, too! Trust me, trust me, Lovi, I have a really good feeling about this!”

Even when he couldn’t see them, he knew. He remembered his dreams. The stars had never steered him wrong before.

He picked up his cat and without waiting for his brother’s permission, set a course through Rome.

* * *

 Trevi Fountain was, as always, packed with tourists: wealthy Frenchmen and Russians, wayward Americans, aloof English ladies who tossed coins into the fountain secretly. The sky lightened though the day was still soft, casting the city in watercolor. Here, on this day in late August, several things happened at once.

Picture this.

Even here, in such a collection of foreigners that he should’ve rightly been invisible, Kiku’s master found a way to stand out, cutting a crimson path towards the fountain. Did he even own anything that wasn’t in red? Kiku couldn’t have been certain. Over the last fifteen years, he had come to understand his master very well. Yet he still knew so little about the man called “Wang Yao.”

“Sightseeing?” said his master, by way of greeting. He came and leaned against his stomach at the fountain’s edge, staring into the water. “With anyone else I’d be disappointed, but it’s about damn time you took a little vacation. You ought to take a trip into the ruins of Ostia if you get the chance. Lots of good views out there.”

Kiku bowed out of habit.

The soothing noises of the fountain couldn’t drown out the hectic buzz of conversation. Kiku had read somewhere that the cure for anxiety was to confront one’s fears. But so far, he’d had no luck. There was no chance of them being overheard here but press of human bodies made him want to flee, to hide in the shade of his hotel room. But he couldn’t. He could not – would not allow himself – to hide from the world like a timid child. So he kept it hidden under a mask of ever-present calm, thinking that if he pretended for long enough it might become true.

A cat’s yowl made him jump in reflex. Yao, however, was kind enough to ignore this. Kiku took a deep breath, composed himself, and resumed.

“I promise I am not neglecting my duties,” he said, turning to watch the crowd. “But I felt it would be beneficial to try and understand this country a little more before I commit to the competition.”

Yao made a sound that could’ve meant anything.

“Well, from my perspective, this country seems to agree with you.”

This was probably in reference to Kiku’s new ensemble – a fashionable Western suit, complete with a new hat. He nodded, wondering if his mentor was disappointed.

“The people here have been very kind to me,” he said. “Miss Elizabeta especially.”

“She’s adopted you as her personal fashion project, huh?” Kiku hadn’t said anything of the sort, but Yao’s lips quirked into a half-smile. He always knew. “Well, you always were a bit hopeless where things like that were concerned.”

Kiku bit back his voice. He could remind his master that, for nearly all of the past fifteen years, Yao had been responsible for his appearance and upkeep. He could remind his master that there wasn’t much reason to keep up on trends when the only people you spoke to on a regular basis were servants, who never replied to your conversation attempts anyway. But he didn’t.

“And what about the rest of the circus?” Yao asked. “How’re you handling it?”

“It will take some getting used to,” Kiku admitted. “But so far, I have no complaints.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that. So – why did you ask me to come here, then? I was worried you had some trouble.”

“Not at all,” said Kiku. “I wanted to ask if you would please give me some kind of update as to my progress.”

Yao eyed him, eyebrows raised.

“You want to know if you’re winning already?”

Kiku wouldn’t have put it that way. But – yes. He lowered his eyes respectfully.

His master sighed. “Your progress has been fine. You exceeded my expectations – though I think your audition was a little weak. I know you can do better.”

“I’ll try harder next time.”

“Well, you got in, that’s all that really matters.” Yao sighed again, but there was a little smile on his face now. “And I guess I shouldn’t complain about coming out to see this place. I really do like it here in Rome.”

“I apologize if I caused you some inconvenience.”

“Don’t,” said Yao, straightening up. He patted Kiku absently on the shoulder. “Just watch out for cats, okay?”

Meanwhile, across the plaza, Lovino and Feliciano were watching one of the lonely English ladies dig in her purse for a sixpence. Ara squirmed unhappily in Feliciano’s arms, her claws snagging in his shirt. This was worrying – he wouldn’t be able to afford a new one if it was ruined.

“Will you keep her quiet?” Lovino hissed, when Ara mewled. “If she scares off the tourists, we’re done for! Unless you want to steal coins from the fountain.”

“We can’t do that!” Feliciano said, scandalized. “Those are people’s wishes, Lovi! We can’t take those away.”

“They’re not wishes,” his brother replied, scoffing. “People just get sad and lonely and toss their bad memories into the fountain and just hope that it goes away. Like that lady with the hat.” Lovino gestured to the English woman as she moved away from the water’s edge. “She was going to get married but he dumped her when they were in Spain and now she thinks she’s too old and she –”

As he was saying this, Ara let out a tiny wail. Feliciano shushed her. Rolling his eyes, Lovino’s gaze went to the fountain. He was looking for a better view of the lady but instead came to rest on a strange man in red. His olive face blanched suddenly, and without warning, he seized Feliciano’s arm and yanked.

“Ow, ow, ow – Lovi, _wait_ , that _hurts_!”

“We’re leaving,” said Lovino sharply. “We have to go right now!”

“What’s wrong with you?” Feliciano whined, struggling to drag his arm back and hold Ara at the same time. “We didn’t even get to start the cat show!”

He dug in his heels but Lovino was surprisingly strong and would not let go. Through his rising confusion and panic, he heard Lovino say, “That red bastard has no shadow!” But Feliciano did not understand – Ara’s claws dragged down his bare forearm, Lovino tugged him so hard he lurched, making him whimper.

“Wh-what’s wrong? Lovi, _ow_ , Lovi, stop it – you’re hurting me, you’re scaring Ara, let go, _let go_ –”

The little silver tabby leapt from Feliciano’s arms and bolted.

“ARA!” Feliciano wailed, finally escaping his brother’s hold at the same time Lovino shouted, “IT’S DANGEROUS, YOU IDIOT!”

Like a little silver bullet, Ara darted under skirts and between legs, skirting over people’s shiny shoes and making tourists start, inevitably parting the ways for Feliciano who ran – directly into the arms of the man from his dream.

* * *

 Yao turned and seemed to vanish into thin air. Honestly, Kiku had expected this, but the curt visit still managed to disappoint him. At twenty-two, he was no better informed of his purpose in life than he was when Yao plucked him out of that orphanage. His master had given him many gifts, but it had all been for a particular reason. A game with no rules apart from “join a circus.” It didn’t make any sense and Yao wouldn’t explain anything to him, only saying things like, “You’ll understand it in your own time.” Well, now that time had come and still, Yao declined to give instructions.

Perhaps if he knew his opponent, it might make more sense. Kiku supposed that he or she must be among the other members of the circus, but most of them had gone on to London. He couldn’t narrow down any of the possibilities, knowing that if his opponent was in any way intelligent, they would have taken precautions against him. He wondered if they even knew he was here. Was it a mistake to stay so long in Rome?

He was so lost in thought that he completely neglected his mentor’s advice, and did not see the tabby cat until it pounced on his knees.

“ _ARA_!”

A little boy followed the cat, colliding directly with his midsection. Kiku grunted, doubling over. Even if the boy was skinny and small, he’d been chasing the cat about as fast as his legs could carry and the force nearly pushed Kiku into the waters of Trevi Fountain. He scrambled to grab the cat before its claws tore up his pants’ legs – even if it would be easy to repair, he balked at the thought of Elizabeta spending all that money on a suit for him, only for him to ruin it – and held the creature at arm’s length. Normally, he was friendly to animals, but the cat yowled and clawed at his sleeves, like it wanted to rip them off.

The little boy clung to Kiku’s legs, crying.

“Ara!” he cried. He spoke Italian so quickly that Kiku struggled to keep up. “You saved her, you saved her! Thank you, Kiku, isn’t that your name? I’m so glad I found you, oh, thank you so much for saving my Ara, I don’t know what I would’ve done if I lost her –”

In moments, another little boy pushed his way from the crowd.

“You idiot!” he shouted, launching himself at the first boy with his fists bared. “I _told_ you, you stupid, I told you we shouldn’t have come here today but you didn’t listen and now look what you did!”

Kiku struggled, backing flush against the fountain and wincing when the cat’s claws hit his open palms; his fingers twitched but he refused to let go. He felt the weight of the crowd’s eyes – all of them, suddenly, turning to the sound of the boy’s strident voices, the cat crying, and Kiku standing at the center of it all, and suddenly, it was all too much –

He did the only thing he could: He took the world in his hands and he changed it.

There was a soft noise, a sensation like a breeze rolling over them.

The two boys stopped, silenced.

Rome was gone. They stood on a darkened hilltop, atop the roots of a tree, overlooking the countryside where Kiku had once lived. At the bottom of the hill, in the deepest part of the valley, was a gated house. Dusk had faded to night and the lanterns were lit, pale yellow like firefly lights. When the sun disappeared, it resigned the only color in the world to the rich grass, the blades as tall as each of the boys, and the massive tree – a cherry tree in full bloom. Blush-colored petals drifted to the earth, silent and soft.

Kiku breathed, tasting the night air off the mountain.

He took the cat in both hands, running his finger down the little creature’s spine.

Then it, too, was silent.

“Wh – what is this?” the darker of the two boys asked. His eyes were huge, darting around the landscape. With his eyes adjusted, Kiku could see a clear resemblance between the two grubby boys, though one was fair and one olive-skinned, one brunette and one auburn. It was in the set of their faces, and in their golden eyes. A rare and distinctive color, Kiku noted. _They know my name._ “What the hell did you do? What are you, you bastard?”

But the boy’s brother – the one called Kiku by name– stepped back and turned himself in a slow circle, taking it all in. He reached out, caught a petal as it fell, and gasped.

“It’s magic!” he whispered. “It’s real, real magic, Lovino!”

“No, you idiot,” said the other boy, hushed. “It’s a memory.”

_Interesting_. He took a deep breath and looked down at the two boys, who gazed back expectantly – one in admiration and one in apparent horror.

“You are both correct,” said Kiku, with as much of his calm authority as he could. “Please don’t be afraid. I only thought it might be best to have this conversation somewhere quiet. Would you mind telling me how you learned my name?”

He handed the little sleeping cat back to the auburn-haired boy, who beamed.

“I saw you in my dream!” he said. “That’s how I recognized you, because the stars told me your name when I wished on them last night, I wished for a place to live because Lovino was saying that we can’t stay in Ostia for too long and then when I slept, I dreamed about us meeting. But what I want to know is when we’re going to have the party!”

“What party, you idiot?” asked Lovino.

“I don’t know! I dreamed that all of us were together and dancing, but you woke me up before the dream was over!”

Lovino scowled. “Well, sorry, for interrupting you and your imaginary friends, I guess.”

“Do you have visions as well?” asked Kiku.

“No,” the boy grumbled. “Feliciano is stupid, he’s always talking about things that may or may not come true, going on about stars and dreams.”

“But Lovino knows a lot about people!” his brother chimed in helpfully. “That’s what makes him so angry. He knows lots of things, even stuff he’s not supposed to know! Tell him what all the things you saw at the fountain today!”

“No! He’s with the red no-shadow bastard, remember?”

Red, no shadow… There was only one person that could be.

“But Kiku is very trustworthy,” said Feliciano. “He’s going to take us to a party where we can eat whatever we want and there’ll be lots of friendly people, and we won’t have to sleep on the ground anymore! Right, Kiku?”

At this moment, Kiku’s mind raced itself, weighing the options. These boys were clearly magicians. It might be dangerous to leave them alone and untrained, especially if they were already sleeping in the streets. It seemed that Feliciano had some kind of future-sight; from his words, it was possible to conclude that he intended for Kiku to bring them to the circus. But there were other factors to consider, dozens of possibilities.

He said, “Perhaps Lovino should decide for himself whether or not to trust me.”

The boy glared at him. “What do you mean?”

“If what Feliciano says is true, you should be able to learn some things about me just by looking. Please. I invite you to look – and to tell me what you see.”

Lovino squinted.

“You’re an orphan – like us. This place we’re in now is where you grew up after that no-shadow bastard took you from your orphanage. You used to sit under this tree and study, and you always studied because that was all you could do. Damn, this is boring. You hardly ever left but once you went to… to Athens. Yes, Athens. And that was supposed to be to get books and study more but you didn’t. You met someone. A res-restoration artist? I don’t know what that means. But after you met him –”

The boy stopped abruptly.

“You made it go away,” he said. “How did you do that?”

Feliciano pouted. “Lovi, you’re embarrassing him!”

“No, I didn’t! Besides, this bastard asked me to so it’s not my fault if he was embarrassed!”

Some things were better off buried. Kiku took a deep breath.

“So, am I correct in understanding that you two cannot control your powers?”

“Why?” Lovino demanded. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It could be,” said Kiku. “For example, at Trevi Fountain, at this moment, there are hundreds of people. It must be difficult for you, Lovino.”

The boy made a face.

“But if you would like, I can teach you to manage these abilities.”

Feliciano brightened. “Can you teach us to do stuff like this?” he asked, gesturing to the hilltop.

“Perhaps. But it will take many years.”

“That’s okay!” said Feliciano, jumping up and down excitedly, waking the cat again. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew you would! I don’t care if it takes years and years, I want to be magic too!”

Kiku offered the boy a smile. “You already are. There’s no need to thank me.”

The tourists marveled and grumbled. The little quiet foreigner had turned the tables with ease, tamed those two urchin boys and their ridiculous pet– thank goodness. All the commotion would have surely spoiled such a lovely afternoon. Still, those at Trevi Fountain were glad to see the backs of them. They had no idea that they’d witnessed the strings of fate coming together.

With this, the board set for the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay SO here it is! This chapter was - eh, challenging what with the weird structure and Feliciano's POV always being a bit tough for me but I finally got some free time this week/weekend to write it! I hope you all enjoy!


	7. in london

It bothered Alfred that he knew London so well. The city wasn’t bad, per say. A bit grimy, a bit gloomy but overlooking things like that, even the food wasn’t as terrible as everyone said it was.

No, the main thing that bothered him about London was that it wasn’t home.

London was his father’s city. The towers and the looming brick and smog-blackened buildings were his. The ravens and the river and the tolling of the bells were his. Alfred was an outsider, dropped here because he had no place else to go. He looked fine walking down the street but everyone knew he was a fraud the instant he opened his mouth. The streets were too narrow and the sky too dark; sometimes the city seemed to be crushing him.

Ivan’s presence made it bearable but even now, the ghosts of his past clung to these streets.

Alfred chewed on his lower lip, heart ringing in his ears as he walked over Blackfriar’s Bridge.

This was a bad idea but he couldn’t stop himself.

Two days ago, Kiku Honda moved into a hotel in Kensington, near the Edelsteins. Alfred had scarcely seen him since his audition, though he’d attended his fair share of di Silva’s parties. He was still, bizarrely and uncharacteristically, intimidated by their illusionist. Every time he thought he’d gathered up his courage and moved to formally introduce himself, a little voice in his head told him: _You’re not ready. You’re not good enough for him yet. Not yet._ He spent many nights lying awake, reliving that afternoon in the theater, watching Kiku spin imagination into reality and knowing it was only the beginning. He had to be better before he could make his first move.

It was mid-September and there was already a heavy chill in the air. Alfred wore his gloves and a scarf, pulled up against his chin to protect from the bite of cold smog. He knew plenty of people that balked at the idea of actually spending time on the south banks of the Thames. This was the kind of place where rich folks went “slumming,” gawking at the theaters and the brothels and the illegal boxing rings. But Arthur Kirkland had no fear of thieves or swindlers. He actually appreciated the south bank – more interesting stages with enthusiastic crowds, pubs with cheaper booze. The river, Arthur told his son, was the beating heart of London. The touchstone, the constant. Even if the city went up in flames tomorrow, the Thames would still be there. It gave the city power and it didn’t matter which side you were on. Magic was strongest at the river.

He didn’t know why those memories gave him solace.

The magic in and of itself fascinated Alfred. It comforted him, empowered him. Perhaps if he had paid more attention to that feeling of rightness and less to his father, he would’ve been in a better situation for the start of the game.

That was why he walked.

The closer he got to the hotel, the higher his blood sang with anxiousness. He wondered what Kiku was doing now. Maybe he’d gone out to lunch with the Edelsteins. Maybe he was practicing. Maybe he’d gone to a park to enjoy the views. Alfred wanted to be there – to watch, to know him and his habits and his mannerisms, to understand this person whom he’d waited his entire life to meet. They were enemies but it couldn’t hurt to know him, not when Alfred was already so disadvantaged. But he wasn’t supposed to reveal his identity – on that, Arthur was very clear.

But Alfred wanted to. He wanted to, so much.

He moved on. The grimy south bank faded, vanished down alleyways and thoroughfares as London went regal once more. The pearly townhouses and estates at Kensington and Chelsea were for the wealthy – they had cleaners and servants to keep off the smog and the stink. Rows of shops and cafés with prices that made Alfred wince and instinctively clutch at his wallet appeared. He’d teased Ivan about a family fortune, flinched away from his questioning at the Edelstein’s.

Arthur Kirkland owned a grand manor house in the countryside near Windsor – quiet. Densely wooded, for conjuring away from prying eyes. Lots of empty rooms, with dusty sheets thrown over the furniture. Lots of broken dishes, broken bottles. On the outside, it seemed like the place that might house a lord or an heiress; the result was that Alfred felt perpetually like a squatter in what he was supposed to think of as home.

It was easier when he was abroad. He liked Warsaw, and Milan, and Barcelona; and New York, of course. The only city in America that his father didn’t despise and the closest Alfred would probably ever get to his birthplace.

Perhaps he should ask di Silva about sending the circus to Boston.

_– if I loved you I would’ve – unnatural child – your devil father that did this to me –_

Or perhaps not.

Alfred paused in his walk, eyeing the narrow building called Palace Hotel. There were dozens of high-class lodging spaces in Kensington and this one was no different, with its uniformed footman at the door, ladies in blue bustled dresses fussing over their muffs and scarves as their husbands adjusted their hats – but this was where Kiku lived. The Palace Hotel glared out at Alfred like a beacon, a ray of sun breaking free from the overcast skies. Alfred scanned the windows, wondering which room belonged to his opponent.

It would be so easy to just disobey.

Alfred took a deep breath and kept walking.

He went on to another hotel – narrower, more expensive than the last. The doormen stood in wait, silent as tombstones. Alfred peered up at the windows and whistled a cheerful tune.

Within moments, Im Yong Soo appeared at the gate.

“What?” he asked, spreading his hands as he moved to let Alfred in. “No smoke signals? No coded letters? No secret passwords? This was so unstylish.”

Alfred shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”

The fire-eater sighed. “Sure it did. Well, you want a drink or what?”

* * *

Alfred departed the hotel as evening fell. Most people would be settling in for supper at this hour; he had no need to fear being spotted if he walked back past Kiku’s residence but still, he had to hurry if he wanted to get anything done by the time the shops closed. His mind worked faster than his mouth did and so there was no time to explain his idea, to run it by Ivan or even di Silva to see if it would work. Even as his head reframed itself, pushing forward into the circus and the future and the game, the meeting with Im Yong Soo mingled with his memories, all of it running together in a steam of consciousness as he walked.

_The bar was on the third floor – up a dim, narrow staircase that smelled strongly of black cigars and flowered perfume. Yong Soo led him directly to the counter and had him take a seat, while he ordered a pair of drinks. The bartender greeted Yong Soo by name and told him that it was on the house for today._

_“You made yourself at home, huh?” said Alfred, eyeing a stream of red wine as the bartender poured out two glasses._

_“It’s one of my talents,” Yong Soo replied, giving him a little toast. As he did, Alfred felt the familiar separation of space between them and the bartender, like a curtain coming down on a stage. To observers, they would simply appear to be two men sharing a quiet drink on a quiet afternoon. They would not be overheard. “I can make myself at home anywhere in the world. The trick is that I like people, and they like me back. And when we like each other, we want to help each other with the little things.”_

_“Is that why you offered to help me? Instead of Kiku, I mean.”_

_Yong Soo raised an eyebrow. “Going straight for the given names? Very American of you. But, yes, that’s part of the reason.”_

_Alfred ignored this and sipped at the wine. It was strong and dry; he made a face reflexively and set the glass down against the counter. He turned on his stool to try and get a better read of Yong Soo before he continued._

_“What made you dislike him? Have you met before?”_

_“You ask a lot of questions – also very American of you, I might add. The answer is no, we haven’t been properly introduced. But we have a mutual friend, he and I. I think you know him too, don’t you?”_

_Wang Yao – the man in red. He appeared at various times throughout Alfred’s childhood memories. Sometimes, he accompanied di Silva to Arthur Kirkland’s performances. He’d even paid a few visits to the Windsor manor, always unannounced. He seemed friendly enough to Alfred – but he was Arthur’s rival, the man who’d trained Alfred’s opponent. Besides, it was hard to trust a man with no shadow._

_“So Yao’s the one you really hate.”_

_“I don’t hate anyone,” Yong Soo said blithely, to Alfred’s confusion. “We’re having a friendly rivalry, that’s all. I like games but Yao would rather I sit on the sidelines and watch from a safe distance. Even after all this time, he still treats me like I’m nine years old.”_

When Alfred was nine, he could lift objects that were twice as wide and tall as he was. Magic gave him strength. It would be a damn shame if he were to peak at nine years old, Alfred thought now. Lessons had been hard back then – but challenging. Magic was still fun when he was nine years old. He had to do better now, if he wanted to win.

There was a chemist on Kensington High Street that could give him perfectly good materials but Alfred didn’t need perfect. He needed to impress.

The Palace Hotel still drew his eye but it didn’t intimidate him any longer. Alfred put his head up and walked tall, even smiled charmingly at one of the ladies waiting for her carriage out front. She smiled back, surprised but pleased, and her eyes followed him as he moved on. His opponent was strong but Alfred had a different kind of strength. _Kiku Honda, you’ve got no idea what you’re in for._

It took Ivan and di Silva and Im Yong Soo to convince him but Alfred was finally ready.

_“Ivan doesn’t trust you at all, you know.”_

_“I’m sure he doesn’t. But we’re here to talk about your enemies, not your friends. Tell me about what you plan to do to defeat our Mr. Honda.”_

_Alfred had to give an empty laugh at that. “It’d be easier if I knew the rules.”_

_“Well, the rules are simple! You have all your magic and your training – so you just compete until one person wins.”_

_The frustration he had towards this response was almost as old as Alfred. Their game was so simple and yet made no sense at all. He bit the inside of his cheek and asked,_

_“Compete how, though?”_

_“That’s up to you. If it helps, think of the circus as your arena. Use that space as inspiration.”_

_“And when does it end?”_

_Yong Soo smiled like a knife unsheathed. It didn’t reach his eyes._

_“The game ends when the game ends. Some last only a few months. Most of them last for years. An end will come, though. Eventually, someone has to lose.”_

_For some reason, Alfred shuddered._

His father hadn’t told him what he would get if he won – or what would happen if he lost.

Presumably, there was some kind of punishment and reward. Did it really matter? Alfred had always hated to lose, in any sort of contest. When he was six, Arthur Kirkland preformed in Stockholm and had a minor panic-attack when Alfred wandered off from the theater. They found him in an alleyway with a group of local boys, all lying on the dirty ground and laughing their heads off. They’d been running races around the markets, and Alfred had beaten every single one of them – only using a little magic, because while cheating was expected, cheating was still wrong in Alfred’s book – but now he could hardly stand up because his legs were so sore. Arthur had carried him back to their rooms, ranting all the while. Alfred went to bed disappointed – initially, he’d expected praise for his victory – but just before he fell asleep, his father had smoothed his hair back from his head and pressed a kiss to his temple.

Punishment and reward, all tied up in one.

Maybe the game was like that.

_“If that’s the case, why don’t we just hand him the crown right now? He’s more talented than me; he’s got this wrapped up.”_

_Yong Soo shook his head and finished his wine._

_“See, you’re going about this all wrong. You’re worrying and worrying about your opponent’s strengths when you should be concentrating on your strengths.”_

_It was exactly as Ivan had said to him in Rome. Alfred frowned._

_“I’m trying but I’m not good at much.” He lacked the precise control over his powers that he needed for most kinds of magic. Alfred broke things when he was nervous, entirely without meaning to. He influenced others, but only had success if they were open towards him or if they were particularly weak. He had no skill with divination. He produced illusions, but they were shaky – fragile, a little off-putting. They didn’t feel real. “I kind of… fell out of practice,” he admitted._

As he got older, Arthur’s lessons grew harsher and harsher. Rewards were few and far between, and eventually they stopped coming at all. Alfred had told Ivan a story about cutting off his fingers to practice growing them back – and it hadn’t even been a complete lie. Alfred thought that if he were to fall and crack his head open on the sooty and soiled roads of the East End, he could probably recover in moments. The lessons had worked; they made him strong. They also made him angry.

When he was seventeen, he’d had enough. He ran for it, grabbing only what he could fit in a rucksack and all his meager savings. He didn’t have a destination in mind, only the thought that he needed to get as far away from his father – as far away from England – humanly as possible. Alfred practiced his manipulations in these years. He could make people give him food when he was hungry or shelter when he was tired. He was too proud to steal, but not too proud to beg.

That was the year before he came to Rome.

_Yong Soo leaned over the counter, squinting at him._

_“Okay. Let me ask you a couple of questions before we go on. When did you start lessons?”_

_“I was four.”_

_“And when did you stop practicing?”_

_Alfred shuddered in reflex, the memory rising unpleasantly like a sheen of oil in water. His father’s voice echoed in the background: **Come back here, I haven’t given you permission to leave – you don’t know what you’re doing, you ungrateful brat!**_

_“I was seventeen. What of it?”_

_Yong Soo absently rubbed at his shoulder. “I heard a lot about Arthur’s training regimen from friends. Frankly, I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did. You must be pretty tough.”_

_The compliment seemed a little backhanded to Alfred but he didn’t say anything._

_“Based on what I heard, you probably spent a lot of time away from home – wherever that was for you?”_

_He framed it like a question but Alfred couldn’t bring himself to respond like he should. Home? He had Boston – the city where his mother lived and died, a place he hardly remembered. London – his father’s domain; Windsor – the empty place in the woods. New York – his favorite city. Hamburg – where he’d slept in church pews. Vilnius – where he’d been in love for the first time. Barcelona – where he and his father agreed to compromise. Rome – where he’d been happy, despite everything._

_“Or not,” said Yong Soo, with a touch more sympathy than his expression let on._

The chemists of the south bank did their business in shadows. Their shops tended to be dingy, their ingredients suspect, and their prices arbitrary. There was one, however, just by the banks of the river, which was small and shabby and constantly in need of repairs. The owner was an honest and simple fellow, who had served Arthur Kirkland for three decades, since the days of his own apprenticeship. In return, Arthur used his abilities and his money to ward off misfortune for the shop, which in any other situation would have been closed down ages ago.

This was where Alfred started.

As he rounded the bend in the river, he saw the familiar building – and the balding chemist at the dirty glass on the windows, the door cracked just so that he could reach his arm out and flip his sign from “open” to “closed.

Alfred didn’t think; he ran, and threw himself forward, jamming his foot hard into the gap before the door could slam itself shut.

Pain came in an instant – there was a dull thud and a throb when something cracked. Cracked, not broken. Easy to fix. Alfred grimaced and hid it with an awkward smile – the kind of look that someone might use when they were running into a man they hadn’t seen since they were small.

“Alfred Kirkland,” said the chemist, with an appreciative smile once he’d gotten over his initial bewilderment. His heavy, off-kilter accent was a comfort. He had never quite lost the lilt of his youth in Belfast, just as Alfred had never picked up on his father’s accent. “As I live and breathe! What the hell are you doing here, lad? I heard from your da that you buggered off to the continent.”

It had been a long while since he used his father’s surname, but Alfred just kept smiling.

“I’ve been working,” he replied. “You wouldn’t believe everything that’s happened. Mind if I come in?”

“You might as well,” said the chemist, eying Alfred’s shoe in his doorway. “Gonna need something for that, I suppose?”

“Nah, it doesn’t even hurt!” This was a lie but Alfred was already repairing the damage as the chemist swung his door open. “Actually, I’ve got a list of things I’m going to need. Might take a few minutes, if you’ve got the time.”

A dubious look. “What’s this about, again?”

Alfred flashed his smile. “Just a little something I’m cooking up for work.”

* * *

_“What you need is to find your center,” said Yong Soo. “Yao always starts us off with lessons about energy – where it comes from, how to control it. For this, he has us take notes. It’s very simple. He lectures and we write everything down, sparing no thought or detail. Everything we learn, everything we do or don’t understand. He’s always reminding us to write things down. For himself, he keeps a notebook full of every fact he’s ever learned and every detail he’s ever noticed. He never runs out of paper or ink. All his power is in that book. That’s how we find our center. As for me…”_

_Yong Soo rolled up his sleeves, and with one hand pulled his collar to the side. The skin on his forearms darkened and patterns emerged. Alfred spied numbers, letters, symbols – languages he knew, and some he didn’t. There were painted images and scenes, covering the lengths of his arms and his shoulders to his pectoral muscles, sleeves of ink against his skin._

_“_ _I got bored of writing things down on paper,” he said, grinning. “Yao thought it was just teenage rebellion but it’s served me pretty well over the years.”_

_Alfred had to admit he was impressed._

_“I’d bet all my hats that Kiku has a book of his own,” said Yong Soo, fixing his ensemble once more. “As far as I can tell, he’s too much of a goody two-shoes to try and get creative with Yao’s lessons. If you can find that book, you can get a lead on him by –”_

_“No,” said Alfred, an idea striking him suddenly. “I don’t want to manipulate Kiku like that.”_

_Yong Soo sighed and shook his head, smiling grimly. “I should’ve figured. So, what did you have in mind?”_

_Alfred grinned back at the fire-eater. “I have a feeling you’re going to like it.”_

* * *

Romulus di Silva had fallen ill in the third week of September. Since he could not go London, Alfred went to Rome.

The city had barely cooled with autumn’s touch. The skies were paler and the air a bit dryer, but other than that it was exactly as he remembered. On his way to the Wolf House, he found himself strolling past Ivan’s old apartment and smiling as he remembered the afternoons they’d spent there, working out a strategy to defeat Kiku Honda.

Ivan reacted uncertainly to the plan, not quite understanding the theory behind what Alfred was trying to do. But at least, he agreed that it would look impressive. And really, what was the point in a competition if you didn’t try to show off a little?

He climbed the hill and let himself into the Wolf House. The airy, twisted halls were as familiar to him as any. Still, it was too artificial to really be called a home. There was the distinctive sense that he didn’t belong here. He was a guest, an invite, a shadow on the wall. Working as Romulus di Silva’s personal assistant was all well and good but it was time, now, to stand on his own two feet. At long last, Alfred was ready. The circus would be his inspiration.

He had no center, no home, and it seemed at times, no purpose. But he could make one.

The patron was lounging in one of his private rooms in the west wing, decorated in rich reds and powdered golds. He was sitting up against the dark wooden headboard – pale but alert – with a newspaper across his lap and a pen in his hand, a pad of paper cluttered and scratched with notes in Italian. Crumbs from a late breakfast scattered across the sheets. Alfred wondered what his old boss could possibly be doing now. Not preparing for a new project, surely, not when the circus hadn’t even had its debut…

“Alfred!” The old shout of greeting wasn’t as strong as Alfred remembered. “What are you doing here, dear boy? Who sent you? Was it Eliza? I have told that woman that I am not dying, it is just a little cold and I may be an old man but I am still –”

“Sorry, Signor,” said Alfred, striding forward to the bed with his hand outstretched, the plans for his touchstone thrust forward in offering. “I know it’s last minute, but I came up with an idea for the circus that I think you should see.”

Di Silva frowned, taking the papers and squinting at them.

“Damn my old eyes…” he grumbled, holding the papers barely an inch from his nose. “What am I looking at?”

“A new design for the courtyard, Signor.”

“You want to put in a bonfire?”

“Yes and here –” Alfred helpfully reached over and pulled the initial blueprint aside, allowing his chemical equations to take the forefront. “I know it’s not what you had in mind, like I said. Just think about it. It might get colder at night and we’re planning to tour in the winters as well, so we want to make sure that guests don’t leave because they’re freezing. And then of course, it solves some of the problems we had about finding a natural source of light. We don’t have to conceal a bonfire. This stuff here is all research that I did so for the opening ceremony, we can alter the flames so that it fits the rule about color and other than that –”

Di Silva waved a hand to silence him. Despite Alfred’s convictions, he went quiet automatically as his boss flipped through the proposals.

“You have redesigned the entire circus around this one little thing…” he murmured, frowning deeply.

“So… you don’t like it?”

“No, no, on the contrary,” said di Silva. His golden gaze flitted upward to his assistant, sharp and thoughtful. “I like it very much, dear boy, very much. It is much better than all this hiding of lanterns and more reliable, I think, then electricity. Yes?”

“Yes, Signor! That’s exactly what I was thinking!”

“And I am thinking that you have already gone ahead and arranged to accommodate this,” said di Silva, with a faint smile, “and if I give you my permission now, you will walk down to the telegraph office and let them all know that everything goes ahead as planned?”

Alfred flushed. “I just wanted to make sure it was okay first. You know, since it is your circus.”

Di Silva chuckled and handed the papers back. He gestured, down to his body – to the robe he wore, to the blankets which were barely disturbed, to his cluttered notes and the empty bottle of wine on the nightstand.

“Not so much anymore, I think… To me, the circus has always had a life all its own. It needs someone younger, I think. Someone with a good heart and life and energy in them, someone who keeps their head in the proper time, someone to guide it… Not me. At this rate, I will not be well in time to travel for Opening Night. Some ringleader I would be, eh? Our audience would be scared away at the sight of me.”

Alfred didn’t understand. “Signor?”

“Initially,” the old man rambled on, “I was thinking that I could give the job to Roderich, or perhaps to my dear Eliza. And then I thought of granting it to a friend – someone outside the circus – but I realized that I could not do it. It has to be someone that our performers know and can trust. Someone who I can trust. Someone who has never let me down.”

There was a pause while he let Alfred work it out.

“You mean – me?” This had gone in a completely different direction from what Alfred expected. All he’d wanted was a simple ‘yes.’ “What are you asking me to do?”

“Not asking,” said di Silva firmly, sinking back into his pillows with a contented sigh. “This is your last assignment, if you can bring yourself to accept an assignment from a sick old man. You are being promoted. From now on, the circus shall be your responsibility. Act in my place – but do as you please. You are still my shining star. The circus is out of my hands now. The rest is up to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy y'all - I noticed that people seemed to be updating a lot of their Ameripan works this week and decided to join in on the fun!! Good news is that life is progressing well and I've got a bit more free time recently! I'm going to try and write as much as I can before the work(tm) really begins. The next couple of chapters are about Opening Night - and I'm hoping to post them all at once, if I can manage it! 
> 
> I'm really glad you've all been enjoying it so far!!


	8. opening night - from dusk

The circus received very little advertisement. In Romulus di Silva’s opinion, word of mouth was more effective than newspapers or billboards. In this case, he was correct. The hills outside of London filled with black and white stripped tents, surrounded by iron gates that wove together like a series of knots. A sign near the entryway declared:

 _The Circus of Dreams_  
_Open at Dusk, Closes at Dawn_

People were bewildered. “What kind of circus is only open at night?”

The vast, silent tents gave no answer.

By early evening, a sizeable crowd assembled outside the gate. The few who had heard of di Silva’s new project beforehand gathered their friends, assuring them that, even if the concept was strange, the result was sure to be magnificent. The entrance fee – pennies and pence – drew in those who couldn’t have normally afforded a night of revelry. Even the most jaded of London’s inhabitants found themselves pulled in by the spectacle, frowning, ready to disbelieve.

“It’s all powder tricks,” one man was saying loudly to his wide-eyed wife. “For God’s sake, look, they even painted the grass.”

They had painted the grass – and then some. The air itself seemed to pale around the Circus of Dreams. One man’s word wasn’t enough to deter the waiting. Imagination ran wild; children and adults alike filled their heads with the tantalizing ideas of what the might discover in a place called “Circus of Dreams.” Those with keen noses could smell popcorn and caramel cooking within. Those with keen eyes glimpsed shadows between tents – workers, perhaps, or actors. Those with keen ears heard their footsteps above the blustery October winds. The afternoon’s brilliant blue sky faded into a gorgeous autumn sunset. It would be a clear and bright night – the perfect night for dreaming.

Even before the gates opened, they filled the place with stories.

It was October 31st, 1885. Nightfall could not come soon enough.

* * *

“This is a bad idea,” said Ivan idly, “and you won’t go through it with.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Alfred replied, and then folded his arms, staring hard at the tent which he had been watching for nearly ten minutes. 

  
_Fantastic Feats of Illusion_  
_Seating Limited_

“You don’t have to introduce yourself,” Ivan said, sighing. “He already knows who you are.”

“What are you standing here for?” Alfred scowled at him but his voice was higher than normal. “Don’t you have to change?”

Alfred was already wearing his circus attire. He looked incredible – the simple, modern ensemble was designed to draw attention to his best features, so it would be difficult for the audience to keep their eyes off of him when he appeared. Ivan appreciated and envied it in equal measure. Due to the fictions associated with his role as the Fortuneteller, Elizabeta had designed a more old-fashioned and elaborate costume for Ivan. Now it lay in a makeshift cabin outside the circus’s outer limits, waiting for dusk. The striking colors of sunset filled Ivan with a bewildering sense of urgency, like he was about to be running late for a very important appointment.

“I’m just saying,” said Ivan, raising an eyebrow over at Alfred. “You don’t need to give him any further advantages.”

“If you know your enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.”

Ivan’s eyebrows crept higher. “The Art of War? I’m impressed. But doesn’t the proverb also make sense in reverse? Besides, Honda isn’t Chinese.”

“I know,” said Alfred, almost a whine. “Are you planning to help me out here, or what?”

“What if you accidentally give away your position?”

“I won’t.” Alfred took a deep breath. His eyes glimmered, and Ivan glimpsed the strength in him, just as it had been on the very first day they met. “Look, Ivan, look. I spent my whole life wondering who this guy was – if he was even real. And then I spent all this time hiding from him so now – I’ve just got to introduce myself. I have to know what kind of person he is, for my own sake. I have to try.”

Ivan tugged again at his collar.

“Well,” he admitted. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. After all, no one expects their friends to be working against them.”

Alfred shuddered. “That’s not – you know what? It’s okay. I’m going to do it.”

“Very well, then.”

“I’m going to march right in there and just – just charm his socks off.”

Ivan couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sure.”

“He’s not going to know what hit him,” Alfred declared, taking a deep breath. “Wish me luck!”

Ivan still believed that this would end in disaster but he couldn’t bring himself to stop Alfred, not when he was finally starting to believe in himself. But he couldn’t wish Alfred ‘good luck’ either. Ivan watched Alfred’s back disappear through the flap in the tent – _wait, Alfred, don’t you think you’re being a bit reckless?_ – only now it was too late to call out to him, to make him stay.

It was his game, anyway.

Ivan stilled his racing heart, and went to his own tent.

* * *

Kiku’s tent was nearly pure white, the entrance held up by something that resembled a of _Torii_ gate: two black pillars with a pale _shimenwa_ rope tied between them. He was pleased that Elizabeta and Roderich were so attentive to his instruction. The pieces were not taken from makers in his home country; still, they managed to appear completely authentic. Within, there were three circles of chairs and no other decoration. His audiences would be small and personable. He controlled the space, the pieces of his act, even the times of performances. Since arriving in the West, he’d had much more personal freedom. It unnerved and excited him – the sheer, raw potential at his fingertips.

This first night was too important to waste on frivolity. Though he had half a mind to explore the circus for himself, Kiku did his duty. He retreated from the other actors and remained in the tent for the day, meditating, practicing, writing and sketching, endlessly sketching. He remained calm, despite the occasional spikes of nervous energy. He had prepared for this moment since he was seven years old and he would not fail.

As dusk fell, he received a visitor.

“Hello? Hello – oh, good, you really are in here! Thank God, because I thought I saw you walk in here after lunch but then I didn’t see you again the entire day, so I –”

Kiku started and scrambled to his feet, sending his sketchbook away in an instant, self-conscious without knowing exactly why. He tugged at the end of his sleeves, felt the soft material of his gloves – part of a costume but convenient.

“– just decided to just check everywhere but I wanted to start here, and I was right!” said the visitor. “I mean, that’s really great because I realize we don’t have that much more leeway before the ceremonies and things all begin, and I’d hate to waste time – yours or mine or anyone else’s! I mean, I’m the manager now, after all. No more slacking off for me! Um, I guess that’s why I’m here?”

With another jolt, Kiku recognized di Silva’s handsome assistant – Alfred Jones. During their first encounter at the theater, Kiku had been too shy to speak to him, too nervous for his audition to focus on much else. And after, he hadn’t found an opportunity to remedy that dismal first impression. Still, the other circus members spoke of Alfred often. The Edelsteins liked him, di Silva relied on him heavily – enough to even make him the proprietor of the circus – and the other actors held fair opinions as well. Alfred seemed to be the type to make a strong, lasting impression.

And now he was standing in Kiku’s tent, smiling crookedly and widely, looking pleased and eager. He wore a powerful suit – a tailored jacket that clung to his broad shoulders, a tall collar, ivory buttons, pearls at his cuffs, his blonde hair smoothed back and hidden beneath a smart black hat. The lack of color made his eyes even more stunning.

Kiku cast his eyes downward – politely.

“See,” said Alfred Jones, apparently coming to the point. “I just thought it was high-time for us to be properly introduced. We didn’t get to talk much after your audition. Which is a damn shame, by the way, because everyone I asked thinks that you’re incredible.”

“You – you asked after me?”

He looked up, suddenly anxious. Their eyes met briefly; Alfred flushed and pressed his lips together, and Kiku was sure that he wore an identical expression.

“Well, n – I mean, yes. Yes, I did.”

His heart throbbed. “May I ask why?”

“Um,” said Alfred, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s like I said… I just think that we should get to know each other. I mean, I should get to know you a little. Since I’m the circus manager now. The last time I talked to Signor, he said I’d better get on good terms with everyone so that the acts can flow smoothly. Because people are less likely to do their best when they don’t feel supported and um – well, you know. ”

Kiku hastily rearranged his thought process, chastising himself.

“Ah – I see now. I’m sorry if I caused any inconvenience since I wasn’t able to introduce myself to you earlier.”

“What? No, it’s not – it’s not your fault!” Alfred laughed uncomfortably. “To be honest, I thought your audition was really impressive so I’ve been trying to find an excuse to talk to you for a while but – ah, you know how work gets.”

Kiku nodded to show he was listening, though his mind was elsewhere. This was all so confusing. Alfred certainly seemed interested in him but he couldn’t tell if it was purely in the interest of work or if it was for a more personal reason. He didn’t know which of those options appealed to him most. It was too quiet and too loud with him here, throwing this place off-balance.

“So, uh, anyway! What do you say we start off at square one?”

Alfred extended a hand, which Kiku accepted. They shook hands – mostly Alfred, with Kiku habitually sinking into an awkward half-bow in the process.

“It’s an honor to formally meet you –” Kiku hesitated, translating in his head “– ah, Mr. Jones.”

But Alfred balked at the honorific. He looked, if not quite offended, definitely unhappy to be addressed in a formal style.

“Come on, there’s no need for that – that kind of – thing.”

He meant the title, which Kiku had chosen because English lacked strict levels of distance and therefore, one catch-all term was enough to convey the proper sense of respect. “But you have a position of authority over ordinary performers such as myself,” said Kiku.

“I mean – sure but –” Alfred shuddered. “Jeez, I’m not old enough to be a mister-anything. Just call me Alfred, okay? Everyone does.”

Another awkward pause followed this. So far, the Englishmen had appreciated Kiku’s deference to formalities. But – according to Elizabeta’s gossip – Alfred was not actually English. He had been born in the United States and raised abroad. Though the thought of calling Alfred by his first name when they had only just met struck more than a few chords, Westerners always said, “When in Rome…”

“Of course,” Kiku murmured. His voice caught when he added, “Alfred. I’m sorry to have upset you.”

“You didn’t,” Alfred said quickly. He laughed, but it was clear to that he felt as awkward about this as Kiku did. “Don’t apologize about little stuff like that!”

So direct. Kiku blinked, startled again. “I – if you insist.”

“What? Oh, wait you thought – no! No, that wasn’t what I –”

Alfred wilted. Under his breath, he muttered, “God, this isn’t working.” Kiku wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear it but he couldn’t help but agree. An apology was halfway out of his mouth before he stopped himself, biting his lip.

“Well,” he said slowly, “if it makes you feel any better, I am glad to meet you. Mr. di Silva must have considerable faith in you, for him to give you such responsibility at your age. Knowing that, I think that I can put my faith in you as well. I believe you will take good care of us.”

Alfred fidgeted with his glasses. Hesitantly, he offered another crooked smile.

“Thanks…” His cheeks pinked once again as he added, “I think maybe you’re the first person to feel that way.”

Well, with his age and inexperience, it was only natural for others to be concerned. But Kiku was not here to worry about trivial matters such as management and money. He was here to play – to find his opponent – to win. With that in mind, perhaps being close with the manager could be beneficial.

“I am only being honest. Did you really like my audition?”

The soft pink on Alfred’s cheeks deepened to rose. “Yeah, I actually did! It was – pretty.”

He still seemed on edge and so Kiku tried a smile of his own now. “Thank you, but it was only a small demonstration. As I told Mr. di Silva, I can perform with almost any materials. In truth, I am not sure what I should do now that I am here, now I have more than one person’s opinion to consider.”

“Well, it’s your show! You should do the acts that you like best.”

“But if I do not tailor my shows to my audience, then it is likely that they won’t return. I would hate to become a burden for the circus.”

“Oh, I’m sure that won’t happen.”

There was, of course, a possibility that his opponent would try to maneuver him out of the circus. But Alfred didn’t know this and nor would he ever need to. Kiku made a noncommittal sound.

“Nevertheless, I must make a good impression for Opening Night.”

“So, you really have been in here all day practicing?”

When Kiku nodded, Alfred asked, “Can you show me?”

Something abruptly pinched at the back of Kiku’s neck. Must have been the last remnants of his earlier anxiety, burgeoned by the sudden request. He shook it off with impatience. “You mean my act?”

“Yeah! If that audition was really just the start of what you can do, then I’d love to see what you’re really capable of!”

The request appeared quite genuine. Kiku wondered if Alfred ever seen an illusionist perform – perhaps as part of his research for the building of the circus. The tent had no mirrors, no curtains, and no panels on the floor with which to conceal equipment. The magic hid in plain sight. Even the uninitiated and naïve could spot the differences between an act and a spell when the two were performed side by side. Kiku risked a glance at those clear blue eyes and wondered how sharp the young manager really was. Would he notice the difference?

There were other matters to consider as well. His opponent – if they were smart, which they almost certainly were – must have thought to try and get close to those in power as well. Could he trust Alfred not to blab about the magic he saw here?

Kiku smiled coyly.

“I have taken the liberty of posting my intended schedule outside. Please make sure you arrive early so that you can find a good seat.”

To his amusement, Alfred actually pouted.

“Come on, pretty please? Please, just one trick! I promise I won’t spoil the show for everyone – just one teensy tiny little demonstration?”

“As the manager, I would think that you should be a bit more concerned about the rules.”

“But if I’m the manager, then aren’t I making the rules?”

“Mr. di Silva has given me complete authority over this tent. Therefore, my rules are pertinent.”

“What if I just override you with my far-reaching managerial powers?”

“There are other rules at work here, I’m afraid. Rule number one for a magician is to never reveal his secrets. And that, unfortunately, takes precedence.”

“Well, I’ve always heard that I’m incredibly persuasive. I think that if I can convince Ivan to join the circus then I can convince you to show me how to turn paper into birds.”

“Perhaps we should compromise,” Kiku offered, thoroughly entertained. “It is Opening Night, after all. We have the perfect opportunity to make a deal. You can attend one of my shows this evening, and choose a single piece of my act that impresses you. Then, I will attempt to teach you the method.”

“You’d really do that?”

When Kiku nodded, Alfred beamed.

“Deal! When’s your earliest show?”

Kiku shook his head, hiding his amusement. “The list is posted outside.”

“Okay,” Alfred said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll leave you alone now. But you’d better practice hard because I’m expecting a great show! I’ll see you later tonight, okay? Save me a seat in the front row!”

“You are welcome to sit anywhere.” Kiku pointed to a single chair in the front row, near the entrance. “Except here.”

“What’s so special about that chair?”

Kiku smiled. “That, I’m afraid, is secret.”

Though it was clear that he wanted to ask more, Alfred simply grinned and waved and departed from the tent. Kiku was pleased with himself. Though they had gotten off to a rough start, it seemed that Alfred would be easy to get along with. A useful friend – someone who could protect Kiku in the event that his opponent interfered with the tent or his act. But the best part was that Kiku imagined he would genuinely enjoy being in the manager’s company. He was already looking forward to seeing Alfred among one of his audiences that evening.

But Alfred did not return to the Illusionist’s tent.

* * *

At last, the sun sank beneath the horizon. The crowd murmured in excitement as the sky purpled, darkening as dusk fell over them. Lights flickered into being within the circus.

When the last of daylight was fading, a young man appeared suddenly, just beyond the entryway, and strode up to the gate. Though there was no fanfare – he made no sound apart from his feet sliding across the painted grass – one by one, each member of the crowd fell voiceless, captivated by his presence beyond the boundary. He drew their eyes to his, which appeared like twin blue flames, the only spots of color in the Circus of Dreams.

He pushed his glasses up his nose, tipped his hat, smiled, and took a deep bow.

Then, he snapped his fingers – the sound breaking cleanly through the hushed night air.

On cue, the gates fell open.

Within, a young woman stood at a ticket booth, her hands open to collect the entry fee and hand out little black and silver tickets. When it occurred for someone to look for the bespectacled young man, they realized that he had vanished – as if he’d never been there at all.

It was dusk, and the dream began.

* * *

Ivan checked his watch impatiently, shuffling his deck. It was probably bad form to close his tent on Opening Night, but it would be worse to leave a friend alone in this place. And Francis Bonnefoy – poet, romantic, insufferable dreamer – was exactly the sort who would abandon his head and his heart in a Circus of Dreams. Ivan had a bad feeling that this place would be exactly to his liking.

In the other room, fabric rustled and a bell pealed, high and sweet. Ivan bit back a huff, double-checked his ensemble, and put on his showman’s face. By the time he crossed the black curtain into his tent’s second room – the reading room – he was the Fortuneteller. A pair of middle-aged English ladies with too much powder caked on their faces gasped theatrically to see him, murmured with excitement when he invited them to sit at the little round table.

Just as Alfred predicted, the Fortuneteller was quite popular. Patrons managed to find him almost instantly, though the narrow tent was hidden between two others that were much larger and grander. He’d covered the walls in tapestries that, despite the limits of monochrome, reminded him of home. That first night, he read for lovelorn women and jealous husbands, little boys with dreams that they might one day outgrow, and grandparents who craved reassurance. Several required an explanation: Ivan could not speak to the dead or see the future. He would only answer questions, offer advice for troubled hearts.

It was not as bad as he’d thought it would be.

Then again, for Alfred, he would endure anything.

At ten, Ivan put up a sign on his entrance:

 _Called away due to unforeseen circumstances._  
_Come back later._

The night was deep when he emerged. As he walked through the sea of tents, Ivan was struck by the genius of di Silva’s work – patrons stuck out like sore thumbs, even those in plain brown or gray. It really was like being transported into another world. The other actors were immaculate, each gesture fluid and practiced. Laughter floated on the wind with the scent of caramel apples and spiced cider. Even the smog-saturated London air could not touch the Circus of Dreams.

But the strangest thing was the way that Ivan had become invisible. Elizabeta debated for weeks whether he should wear black or white but in the end, decided both were too severe for his complexion. Ivan’s colors were softer – ivories and eggshells. He had no need to hide his hair either. For the first time in his life, Ivan’s appearance was totally unremarkable. No one stared as he walked past, no whispers followed him. The patrons assumed he was part of the circus but paid him no mind when there were so many tents, so many stalls to explore.

He was no longer the elephant in the room. He belonged.

Ivan had a sudden, powerful urge to find Alfred.

 _Later,_ Ivan told himself. Less than six months after they first met, and he was almost madly in love with his friend. But there wasn’t time. The game was on now. Alfred could not afford to be distracted.

Though his heart ached with unsaid wants, Ivan filled his lungs with the crisp night air and felt his ardor cool as he turned his mind to other matters.

Francis was late, as usual. Half an hour after Ivan’s suggested meeting time, the Frenchman appeared at the top of the nearest hill, strolling down as if he’d simply wandered in from a masquerade ball. Francis came from a wealthy family and dressed the part, with brocade jackets and ribbons in his hair – a bit old-fashioned, like a prince out of time. When Ivan came to Paris at twenty, Francis had rescued him from obscurity and near-homelessness, gave him friendship and shelter and inspiration. They were far from each other’s type, which was perhaps why they got along so well. Despite being only two years apart, Francis had maturity and wit that rivaled a much older man.

Well, in some matters.

“ _Bonsoir, mon vieil ami_ ,” said Francis warmly, kissing Ivan on both cheeks when he came to the gate. “Only you could cause me to trade Paris for London – this city is hell on Earth.”

“Nothing like Paris,” Ivan agreed. “But not as bad as Moscow.”

The ticket girl, Michela, waved at Francis when he went to pay admission.

“Opening Night is free to you,” she told him, winking. “You’re a friend to our circus. Consider it a gift!”

Francis glanced at Ivan, who shrugged.

“And who do I have to thank for such a gift?” he asked.

In response, Michela handed him a little business card – one side black, printed with silver, reading _The Circus of Dreams_. The other side was white, with di Silva’s mailing address printed in black along with the words: _Care of Alfred. F. Jones_.

Ivan smiled as he led Francis inside.

“So, I am to believe that this card is from your Alfred?” his friend asked, smirking. “The Alfred that I have heard so much about?”

“The very same,” Ivan confirmed.

“I must meet him,” Francis declared. “As soon as possible.”

This amused Ivan hugely. His friend was every inch the stereotype of a snobbish Frenchman – if London was Hell, then America was the pit of no return. He had several horror stories about Americans wandering into his favorite cafés in Paris, which he retold often, to uproars of laughter. Ivan hadn’t mentioned his private feelings for Alfred in any of his letters, but Francis must’ve figured it out by now. He always knew; he had a sense for these things.

“He’ll be a bit busy,” said Ivan. “I haven’t seen him at all since this afternoon.”

Francis pretended to be scandalized.

“But it’s your Opening Night! You should – oh, how should I say? Damn the rules and celebrate your efforts – take pleasure in your creations!”

Possibly not an innuendo but Ivan became embarrassed anyway.

“If we all thought like that, then none of us would ever get our work done,” he said. “A circus is only really fun and games for the guests.”

Francis waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t try to fool me. You took one look at this Alfred person and ran away with the Circus of Dreams, _mon ami_. Terribly romantic, wouldn’t you say? I don’t think you can pretend to be a realist anymore.”

This was true, much as he hated to admit it. The world was wilder and stranger, more magical, than Ivan had ever anticipated since leaving Russia behind. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“Well, one of us has to try keeping our feet on the ground,” he said, but even he didn’t know if he was referring to Francis or Alfred.

“All I’m saying is that it is a terrible shame to waste such a beautiful night with worries,” said Francis. He smiled in sympathy and patted Ivan on the arm. “You have always been so bashful, _mon vieil ami_. I’m glad to see you, in any case.”

He meant well, even if he was a bit of a sap. Ivan smiled.

“I’m glad to see you also. You are actually just in time for the main event.”

“Oh? What might that be?”

Ivan nodded towards the circle of stones and torches in the center of the courtyard. “It’s not my place to say. Only to tell you that it will be impressive.”

Francis’s eyes swept the area, sharp and eager.

“Don’t tell me. It is… a bonfire?”

Alfred’s genius plan. The center of the circus.

“You will be lighting it soon, I imagine?” said Francis.

One week ago, Alfred had provided a small demonstration for Ivan in his flat. It had been breathtaking even on a small scale. Ivan’s eyes went automatically to the surrounding tents, watching for the telltale signs of movement. They would be taking their places soon – the bonfire lighters, with Alfred among them.

“Yes,” Ivan said, distracted. “At midnight, we will…”

He spotted the man, then – slight, with straw-colored hair. He wore a simple suit, a cap over his hair. He didn’t look the part of a magician. He did not resemble his son at all.

Arthur Kirkland.

The air froze in Ivan’s lungs.

“Ivan,” asked Francis, distantly. “Are you alright?”

 _Di Silva._ That was the only explanation. There was no way that Alfred would’ve invited his father tonight. Likely, he had no idea that Kirkland was even here. If he did… Ivan had no idea what his friend might do. Alfred’s father seemed to be searching for something. Even in the dark, at this distance, Ivan could see a tight frown on the Englishman’s youthful face.

“Who is that?” asked Francis, following Ivan’s eyes. “Another friend?”

“No,” said Ivan shortly. “I – I am so terribly sorry. But I have to go and check on something now. Just a precaution before the ceremony. Do you mind waiting?”

Francis’s brows furrowed slightly. “Not at all. Is there anything I could help with?”

“Not this, I’m afraid. Just a moment.”

Ivan forced himself not to run, abandoning Francis to the crowd. He had to find Alfred – to warn him – to tell him…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been actually been sitting on these chapters for awhile and I'm finally alright with it - Kiku and Alfred's first real conversation was the toughest part to write, but Alfred and Ivan had their own issues as well - the others, though, still need some work. It's only taken me a billion years but I've finally got everyone in. Even managed to sneak Seychelles in! (She's Michela, I always call her Michela tbh.) 
> 
> Ludwig will show up next - and then, we light the bonfire. Thank you for all your wonderful comments; I'm really glad that people are excited for this fic! I hope you continue to enjoy this!


	9. opening night - midnight bonfire

  
Something else interesting happened on Opening Night. Roderich Edelstein invited his cousins, the Beilschmidts, to attend the festivities. The elder boys – the oldest was nearly twenty-one – didn’t have much patience for the place. Neither did the parents. They thought that their Austrian cousin and his wild, willful wife were funny – odd. But family was family, and it would be terribly rude to refuse such a generous invitation. The Circus of Dreams was grandiose as the name suggested, but they were too old to play games. Dreams were for children.

The youngest boy, Ludwig, disagreed.

Though he did not say it – he was an obedient boy and tended not to speak unless spoken to – the nine-year-old was enchanted. His favorite was the Acrobats – the women and men who defied the laws of gravity and physics with their performance. They used no nets but were so graceful that the idea of one falling felt impossible. Later, he would beg his parents to allow him to become a gymnast. He imagined it would feel a bit like flying.

His parents smiled tolerably at him. Of course, it was still alright to indulge in Ludwig’s little fantasies for now. But someday, he would find a suitable career, something befitting of a Beilschmidt man. His two eldest brothers would manage the family business, and the others would become doctors or lawyers or bankers. Just because he was young did not give Ludwig liberty to embarrass the family.

They imagined that there would be time for this conversation later.

Ludwig saw many things that night, things that shocked him, things that amazed him, things that he would forget and some he would carry with him forever. He saw a man swallow fire and walk on coals. He saw a black snake with fangs as long as one of his fingers coil, harmless and docile, around a charmer’s neck. He saw black and white leopards, panthers, and even a magnificent albino tiger.

Before midnight, he and his mother went into the Hall of Mirrors, which at first presented itself as an ordinary carnival attraction. Within, he saw himself squished, and then stretched, and then reflected into a pair of Ludwigs, and then he saw himself as a young man, as tall and handsome as any of his brothers. He stood on a balcony above a sea of black and white tents, gazing up at a sky full of stars, holding hands with a boy dressed from head to toe in white.

“Look,” he said, seizing his mother’s skirt and tugging suddenly. “Mama, look, it’s me – an adult me. Is it real? How did they do it?”

His mother looked into the mirror and saw only herself and her son reflected back.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, frowning. “I think that this is the only ordinary mirror in this building.”

Seeing her son wilt, she took pity.

“What a funny imagination you have! Let’s keep walking, shall we?”

She believed that her words had helped; she was wrong. Ludwig felt the sting of his mother’s disinterest. He was smart for his age and he already realized that no one in the family cared about the sort things he did. They didn’t care about things the way that he did, either.

“Later” was happening now.

Eventually, the Beilschmidts decided that Ludwig was tired and ready for bed. They shepherded their sons out of the circus, though Ludwig hesitated at the gate. While his brothers ran on ahead – ready to head out into London for the evening with their father – he admitted that he wasn’t tired and wanted to stay, to watch them light the bonfire at midnight.

Mrs. Beilschmidt smiled her thin, meaningless smile.

“It’s only a bonfire, sweetheart. We can have one ourselves, back home. So you won’t miss much.”

Ludwig took one last, longing look over his shoulder.

The patrons were coming into the courtyard now, ready for the fires to come alight. Among them was a boy – red-haired, about Ludwig’s age, dressed from head to toe in white. An angel, Ludwig thought, and he understood. For that one precious moment in time, he believed. His vision from the Hall of Mirrors was no illusion; it was real. The boy was right there and he was not a dream. They were close enough that if Ludwig had only called out, he would have heard.

But his mother took him by the hand and dragged him back into reality.

* * *

“Cut it out, moron, stop pushing me!”

Feliciano was too excited to pay attention, giggling instead of whining when his brother shoved him into place at the front of the crowd. He loved his new circus costume: His suit was made from all manner of material, velvet and lace and silk and cotton and gauze, the patchwork of fabric all in white. Lovino wore an identical costume in onyx and jet and licorice. People smiled at the boys when they walked by – instead of frowning and shaking their heads like they used to – and they got free cider and caramel apples at Antonio’s snack booth. The masked Turk – Sadiq – taught them the tricks of taming cats. Miss Eliza even promised to get them their own tent someday.

Already, Feliciano loved circus life. He loved his lessons from Kiku and his new room in the train that would take them around the world. Ara had her own bed in their shared room – and she had a little boyfriend now, so Feliciano was hopeful that they would have kittens soon, a wonderful addition to their old act.

Even Lovino couldn’t bring himself to complain. He’d taken to magic lessons like a fish to water. True to his word, the first thing that Kiku did was teach them to turn their powers on and off, so now Lovino wasn’t overwhelmed with information he didn’t need. It had only been two months but his brother’s moods had drastically improved. Feliciano knew he was happier here, and that made him happiest of all.

It was the most magical, wonderful night he’d ever had. The fire pit, ringed with shiny stones and funny symbols, laid open and vacant, waiting for life. The stars twinkled overhead, whispering beautiful promises to him – promises of all the grand adventures to come. Feliciano smiled up at them, his oldest friends, and thanked them for their help. They had repaid his trust with the best reward, a circus full of dreams.

And this was only beginning.

_It’s you, Feliciano…_

A breeze from the entrance ruffled his hair, and he heard a familiar voice.

_…an angel…_

Feliciano turned to look, spotting the empty gates through the legs of people in the crowd. Some people were already walking away – what a shame! They would miss the main event. And it seemed unlikely that more audience members would arrive so late in the evening. Maybe it was best that way. Tomorrow their guests would go back to their ordinary lives and spread word of what they saw here, and the story would continue on and on and on…

Lovino smacked him lightly on the head to get his attention.

“What are you staring at now?”

“I thought I heard someone calling out for me!”

“It was me,” said Lovino irritably. “Because you keep bumping into me because you won’t stand still!”

“Oh…" How very strange. Lovino would never call anyone an angel, and least of all his own brother. He believed that angels only lived in Heaven, and not on Earth. "I’m sorry.”

Feliciano’s shoulders hunched, heavy and sad though he didn’t know why. He had the strangest feeling – as if he’d lost something. His heart ached with ‘if only-s.’ If only he had turned his head a moment sooner, if only he had looked a little harder, if only he had listened, then he wouldn’t have missed it. He had been so very close to something. But what, he couldn’t have said. He stood still beside his brother, reaching automatically to grab Lovino’s hand for comfort. His twin brother did not knock him away, but allowed their fingers to knit together.

Still, Feliciano turned his eyes skyward.

_What are you trying to tell me?_

The stars were quiet now and gave him no answers.

* * *

“Alfred!”

He whirled around, hissing, “Ivan, come on! You’re not supposed to be back here!”

But his friend pushed the tent’s flaps anyway. Alfred was concealed in a vacated tent near the bonfire circle, waiting for his cue. The twelfth chime – the signal for him to light the bonfire, his one and only chance to get back in the game.

“This is important,” said Ivan, but it was always important with him. He took everything so seriously. This could be nothing at all. But Alfred, already panic-prone, failed to stop his heart from hammering.

“What is it? Is it Kiku?”

As part of the redesign for the circus, Alfred had arranged for the Illusionist and the Fortuneteller to have their tents close together. That way, Ivan could keep eyes on Kiku if Alfred was busy. But Ivan’s friend was coming to Opening Night – had something happened while he was distracted?

“No, Honda is fine. He’s been in his tent all evening.”

“Ivan, come on! I’m gonna miss my cue!”

“I just wanted to check in. And also, to let you know…”

Ivan closed his eyes and exhaled, long and slow. His expression alarmed Alfred, who had never seen him look so troubled. Ivan was one of the toughest people Alfred had ever met; nothing got under his skin. In that way they were opposites and in that way, he was exactly the sort of friend that Alfred needed. His support was unwavering, even if he could get a bit overbearing at times. But they were out of time for heart-to-heart conversations; midnight was nearly here.

He had no idea what Ivan might say when he opened his mouth. Whatever it was, it was lost in the sudden hush that came over the crowd. The absence of sound was twice as shocking as a cheer or a roar; Ivan’s voice died before it even reached his throat. A menagerie of expressions passed over his face – too many for Alfred to recognize or name in succession – and then, he squared his shoulders and said lowly, “Never mind. This can wait.”

“Seriously?” Alfred’s temper rose dangerously. “You came all this way, now just tell me.”

Ivan grimaced. “…I have a friend who wants to meet you.”

“What – the poet friend?” Alfred bit back a more hostile response: That’s it? He had known the man was coming for weeks; he’d made business cards, for God’s sake! “Tell him I can talk to him when I’m not busy.”

“I know,” said Ivan. Dimly, Alfred recognized that he was being rude. His tone would not go appreciated. But he would entirely forget to apologize for his behavior. “I just felt like you should know that I –”

Outside, a bell tolled. There was the distinctive sound of a flame being lit.

“Later,” Ivan said, backing away towards the edge of the tent. “This was a bad idea. We can talk later.”

The second chime came, and the fire grew outside, illuminating the shadows of the crowd. Alfred turned back, trying to re-center himself. That was what this spell was all about, anyway. Finding a center. Asserting himself. Making the first move. The scar on his ring finger, hidden beneath a pair of silk gloves, sang in anticipation.

He did not see the way Ivan’s eyes lingered on him when he exited the tent.

* * *

The tolling of the bell came, as if it had been carried all the way from the clock tower in London. A silent crowd watched as arrows flew from the circle of assembled tents. Those who turned their heads to look couldn’t see where they came from, and nearly missed the lighting of the fires. Chemical alterations – created by the hand of one Alfred Jones – turned the flames into all manner of colors, from scarlet to ebony. Twelve chimes, twelve arrows, and then there was only the sound of the crackling sparks. 

At midnight precisely, Alfred Jones took a deep breath and set the circle ablaze.

There was a flash of light – people gasped – and when it cleared, the courtyard held a magnificent bonfire, concealed in ropes of solid silver with a flame as white as snow – and Feliciano collapsed in a dead faint.

* * *

Kiku shuddered, his knees nearly giving way, and the pocket watch in his palm turned to sand.

He breathed slowly – in, out. In and out.

The audience, for the most part, had not noticed. The fair-haired woman in the front row’s lips parted slightly. Behind him, he heard the gentle gasp of the little redheaded girl whose eyes had followed each movement of his hands so carefully that she barely blinked. But the balding gentleman who had granted Kiku use of his timepiece seemed concerned rather than impressed by the act. Turning it to sand was not in the routine; it was an accident but they could not know that.

The first magician’s rule was to hold on to secrets; the second rule was “the show must go on.”

So he held out his hand, allowing the golden sand to slip through his gloved fingertips. It fell in precise ringlets to the floor. He turned it to glass, and then back to metal. He folded it, transformed it. Within moments, the pocket watch returned. The Illusionist returned it to the balding gentleman in the first row, who was much warmer and receptive now. He inspected it, and declared out loud that it seemed to be in even better condition than before. The others in his audience gave an appreciative chuckle and some light applause.

Kiku bowed, hiding the sheen of sweat on his brow.

 _What did I miss?_ The bonfire – the ceremony at midnight – he had taken such care with his schedule, taken so much time for his practice that he’d missed the main event. And this power, almost enough to knock him off balance… But who? Only his opponent. They must be in attendance now. _Who?_

He straightened up.

The act continued.

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy watched the colors change, each one striking at his heart, altering the mood of the crowd. Yellow was innocent enough but orange hinted at inversion and invention, promised more. Red was realization, anticipation – but the colors darkened one by one, and the suspense amplified as the sparks pulled light from the air, breathe from the lungs. The finale was white – pure, alive, the colors breaking free of their restrictions, uniting in the dream-world. The poem practically wrote itself; in the moment that the fire paled to match the colorless circus, Francis fell in love. Leaving his beloved Paris had been worth it, just for this.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a little boy faint.

Initially Francis had noticed the two boys – their resemblances marked them as brothers while their costumes marked them as members of the circus – and wondered if they might be part of the ceremony. But when the fairer of the two collapsed, he realized that it must not be the case. Immediately, Francis changed focus and went to help.

The boy in black shook his brother roughly, his olive skin blanched with fright. He spoke quick-fire, frantic Italian. Outwardly, Francis kept his face calm and reassuring as he came and crouched beside the two boys. His Italian was limited to outdated schoolroom vocabulary, flirtation, and vulgarity. Where in hell had Ivan rushed off to? His diligent, studious friend would be far more use here.

“What are you doing, you bastard?” the dark brother yelled. “Get the hell away from us!”

Francis did not understand. He smiled in reply, hoping that was enough. To his relief, the fair brother was already reviving. The child’s eyes cracked open. Though they were glassy and dazed, Francis noted the pure golden color and was enchanted. He looked like a little cherub.

The boy’s eyes rounded when they spotted Francis, and tears – fat, heavy drops that clung to his eyelashes – rolled down his face.

“Are you alright, little one?” Francis asked. He reached for a handkerchief in his pocket. He switched to Italian, “I will help.” Back to French. “Don’t cry, you poor thing, nothing will hurt you.”

“Not safe,” the fair boy whispered, a sob breaking in his chest. “I can’t…”

Francis frowned, moving to wipe the boy’s face. The boy had clearly had some kind of nervous reaction – but where were his parents? How irresponsible they must be, to leave their child alone in this crowd.

“You are safe,” he assured the child. “It was only a chemical trick, you see? Nothing to be scared of.”

His brother swatted at Francis, knocking the handkerchief to the dirt.

“Leave us alone, you creep! Go away!”

“Where are your manners?” Then, in Italian, Francis added, “How rude.”

“Fuck you!” said the boy in black. And that phrase, he understood perfectly. Francis was astounded – such language from a child! He knew street urchins in Paris with better manners. The boy’s brother seemed shocked as well; he began to sob in earnest.

“You little gremlin,” Francis hissed. “Can’t you see I’m trying to – watch it!”

The dark boy swung at him with a closed fist. When Francis made to grab him, he wailed and unleashed a fresh torrent of insults.

“Why, you –”

“What’s going on here?”

Ivan’s hulking presence and low voice relived Francis instantly.

“Where did you run off to?” he asked, glaring at his friend. “You missed the entire show!”

“Sorry,” said Ivan. He briefly inspected the courtyard. The bonfire crowd departed slowly. People looked at them but no one stopped to help. A few watched with eager looks on their faces. _Bastards, this is not a circus act!_ Francis thought. When Ivan’s eyes fell on them, they abruptly seemed to think better of their gawking and turned tail. “It turned out to be nothing.”

Francis rolled his eyes, grabbing for his soiled handkerchief. “Well, isn’t that just – _ow_!” The dark boy slammed his fist onto Francis’s knuckles. The fair boy whimpered, a fresh wave of tears coming over him. “God damn it – Ivan, help me! Talk to them, tell them I’m trying to help!”

Ivan loomed over and posed a question in Italian.

The boy in black snarled defiantly and shouted back. Francis caught the phrase “you bastard,” again; it seemed to be one of his favorites. But any hope of following the conversation was lost when the boy in white joined the fray, crying out in desperation. Ivan faltered, holding up his hands defensively. He tried to interject but the boys’ combined dissonance overwhelmed them.

Finally, Ivan snapped and shouted a command.

The two boys bolted like frightened cats.

“What did you do?” Francis demanded, clambering to his feet. “You scared them off, you brute!”

Ivan mumbled an apology.

“Well, we’ve got to find them,” said Francis. “That boy had some kind of nervous reaction to the bonfire. If that fails, we’ve got to get to his parents at least! We’ll split up. I’ll go this way.”

“Francis, you shouldn’t –”

An unfortunate side-effect: Romantics tend to be the reckless sort.

The poet abandoned his friend, chasing the twins into the depths of the circus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one was much shorter... And the last part still needs much more work but I'll try to get it up ASAP.... 
> 
> Next will bring us more Francis, more Arthur and best of all - the first meeting between my favorite Old Married Couple!


	10. opening night - to dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to dedicate this to @mochis, who is an excellent friend and even more excellent writer!!

Feliciano’s head swam with blood and starlight.

He was awake now, not even fully sure why he was running, only certain that he had to get away. Distantly, he recalled the Fortuneteller’s cold, stern gaze and the Frenchman that Lovino tried to hit. So many visions, so many possibilities. The light from the bonfire blinded and consumed him. He had seen falling angels, acrobats plummeting from broken wires, knives dripping with blood. Blue eyes, gold eyes, blue eyes, gold eyes. Gold eyes going dark, blue eyes going cold.

Lovino had been behind him just moments ago.

Feliciano sobbed, and ran, and ran, and ran.

* * *

Alfred strolled through the circus with a spring in his step. Smiling as he walked, he tipped his top hat politely to the gentlemen and posed questions to their ladies: _How are you enjoying the circus? I’m glad to hear that you like it. My name is Jones, but call me Alfred. Let me know if you need something in particular. I hope we’ll be able to see you again._ Charm poured out of him, like rays of light, stunning and delighting the patrons who may have scarcely noticed him before. The stars twinkled in the black sky above the Circus of Dreams but Alfred was determined to outshine them all. The bonfire, surely, had been his best idea yet.

He hadn’t felt this strong in years.

And now – he was going to turn all that charm on Kiku Honda. Alfred felt like running, like skipping. He was going to get a private lesson from the Illusionist, his own rival!

What a stroke of good luck. Between the training and his new clarity, this would be a marvelous game.

It didn’t even cross his mind to wonder or worry about the reason why Ivan had been so agitated.

He wove through the tents, popping in to a few of them just to catch the acts. The acrobats were taking a respite and so now Sadiq the Cat Tamer had the run of the Big Top. His mask didn’t look nearly as ridiculous as it did at di Silva’s parties. He had a whip curled in his hand, but it was clear that this was for the showmanship rather than as a method to control the cats. Sleek black panthers, snow-colored leopards, even a graceful white tiger. The audience was in awe.

Elsewhere, Yong Soo was swallowing fire – not simply dousing it before it passed his tongue, but actually eating it, pulling it from a miniature bonfire like it was cotton candy. Alfred grinned when he stuck his hand right into the flames and a graying, wrinkled woman gave a cry of alarm. Yong Soo started comically, then reached again into his bonfire and pulled out a solid piece of wood. The fires on it seemed to change shape in his palms, becoming a bouquet of flowers, which he offered to the terrified woman in apparently genuine apology. She balked, shaking her head. But another, younger woman was braver and accepted the torch-bouquet. When Yong Soo stepped back, he bowed deeply and the flowers vanished into jasmine-scented smoke.

“Bravo!” said someone. The call echoed, “Bravo! Bravo!” Some of the older men appeared a bit suspicious of Yong Soo, but many others were obviously impressed. The woman now holding a burnt piece of wood gazed at the twig in her hands as if it really were a beautiful bouquet of flowers. She turned dewy, demure eyes on Yong Soo, who had – naturally – decided that it was best to play with fire in a pair of loose-fitting black pants and no shirt.

He caught Alfred’s eye and winked.

Though he’d only just begun his performance, Alfred didn’t want to linger. He did have an appointment to keep, after all.

The circus grew quieter, away from the bonfire and the Big Top. Still, the number of patrons only seemed to increase. Kiku’s show would be letting out just now; Alfred was right on time. He passed by the Fortuneteller’s tent, noting that his friend was still out and about. Strange. It wasn’t like Ivan to put off his work.

At last, he spotted the twin black pillars of the gate, bound in the heavy white rope.

And leaning against that gate –

Alfred felt his insides crumple.

“Idiot boy,” said Arthur Kirkland. His genteel voice, his carefully cultivated accent, his scorn and disappointment carried across the courtyard, cutting through Alfred like a cold knife to the chest. “Don’t you ever learn?”

* * *

Ivan stood against the bonfire light, cursing everything – but Alfred and Francis especially.

Francis because he was apparently unable to help himself where small, weak things were concerned.

Alfred, just because.

The circus was full of children, even as the hours grew later. Some parents carried their sleeping toddlers on shoulders, or guided drowsy-eyed youths out the front gate. But so many others were awake, enchanted by the Circus of Dreams. Many of them had brown hair, and many had red or reddish hair. All of them looked similar in the firelight.

Apart from their costumes, the twins would be all but invisible.

Then there was the matter of Francis.

What to do? What to do?

Ivan thought he really ought to tell someone that the twins had been lost. They were already adored by the staff; hearing the story would likely result in a search party. But that would disrupt the circus, maybe even cause more panic. And besides, Elizabeta would probably murder Ivan with her bare hands for allowing this to happen.

The official story was that Feliciano and Lovino were her distant cousins. Their parents had recently died in an accident of some vague nature, and so Elizabeta was now their legal guardian. When the boys expressed interest in the circus, she and her husband agreed to leave them in the care of the staff. She was quite fierce in her defense of them; any who thought to question the inclusion of a pair of eight-year-old boys in a traveling circus found themselves on the receiving end of her famously terrifying lectures. Graciously, several of the actors volunteered to act as surrogate teachers and chaperons for the poor orphaned boys – and Kiku Honda was among that number.

Ivan didn’t believe this story at all.

All of Elizabeta’s family was Hungarian. As far as the world had been aware til now, she had no relatives outside the country. Not one drop of Austrian blood, and certainly no Italian. At first, he thought that maybe she’d just adopted them during her stay in Rome. But then why not say so? Why go through all of this – this farce? Why put on airs?

At their very first meeting, Alfred had remarked that Elizabeta was “in the know.”

Ivan understood the phrase a little better now, but he hadn’t thought that Elizabeta was really involved with the game. Now he was starting to doubt.

There may have been a hundred reasons to leave the twins here. But the story was questionable.

And Ivan was not the type of person to leave a mystery unsolved.

The fact remained that if he ever wanted to find out the truth, he would have to keep the boys safe, at least for now.

With the bonfire at his back, Ivan stood at a forked intersection between three tents.

He went left.

* * *

Francis lost the sight of the dark-haired boy almost immediately. Determined to help, he decided that one was better than none, and kept his eyes trained on the copper-haired one. The little cherub. Francis felt so guilty for having frightened him. The thought of that poor, sweet child getting lost in a place like this was unbearable. 

On the other hand, his prickly big brother would probably be just fine.

A blur of copper and white raced between the legs of passerby. Francis shoved his way through indiscriminately, not taking nearly as much care as he normally would have, shouting his intentions as loudly as he could, his thickly accented English be damned.

“EXCUSE – PARDON ME – LET ME THROUGH – oh, for God’s sake, someone stop that boy!”

Instead of receiving help, he received a wide array of mildly offensive glances.

Damn the English.

Francis pressed on, not even fully sure where he was going.

* * *

It would be so easy to just walk away. Or, it should have been.

Kiku was right there, waiting beyond the gate.

But when Alfred found himself under the weight of those sharply green eyes, it was like he was six years old all over again. He couldn’t bring himself to disobey his father, the man who had raised him. No matter that they hadn’t been able to pass as father and son for years. Alfred was taller than Arthur Kirkland now. Familiars were apt to remark on it, and the fact that they didn’t look that much alike. Perhaps that was why Arthur had been avoiding Rome, despite di Silva’s open invitation. For strangers, they’d posed as brothers a few times, and once as cousins. The degrees of separation seemed to get farther and farther apart as time went on.

Now he was here – why? Everything had been going so well.

Arthur Kirkland beckoned him, and Alfred went.

* * *

Alfred was late for his lesson.

Kiku waited, patiently, for a few minutes. The manager was probably busy. He was probably dealing with another matter.

Ten minutes passed, and then fifteen.

Kiku grew anxious. He had let the show out early, due to the disturbance he’d felt at midnight and now his scheduled break was coming to an end. He wished that Alfred would appear again soon. Company – any company – would be a welcome distraction from the tempest of his thoughts: _Who?_ Who could have done this and why? Alfred would fill the terrible echoing darkness in his own head with noise and light, if only for a little while.

If only he would show up soon.

The courtyard had gone quiet, but Kiku heard what he hoped were approaching voices.

He rose from a chair and went to the entryway, pulling back the curtain.

But there was no one there.

* * *

Eventually, Francis had to accept that he’d gotten himself utterly and completely lost.

He had come to a quiet corner of the circus. Patrons were few and seemed disappointed. The magic faded little by little, the further one moved from the bonfire. Here, the night was cold and sharp, the stars remote, pinpricks of diamond on a velvet skirt. A few tents were labeled: _**Members Only – Unauthorized Persons Shall be Fed to the Cats.** _

Francis had no desire to be eaten alive, but he had to ask for directions, at least. Perhaps he could even glean some more information about the costumed brothers and gain some help in searching for them. Surely no one at the Circus of Dreams would be so heartless as to let a child wander about unsupervised. Someone had to be able to help.  
He approached the nearest forbidden tent and pulled back the flap.

It was empty but for several long racks of fabric – costumes, Francis realized.

The next tent was crowded with makeup tables: wide mirrors and low stools, jars of powder and cream, brushes dipped black.

And the next: props. Francis spotted acrobat’s rings with silver ribbons neatly wrapped about them, and a series of stacked boxes that were labeled in Chinese. Fireworks, perhaps?

No wonder they didn’t want patrons wandering back here.

He let the curtain flap close again, wondering if he should let himself feel disappointment, or chastise himself for believing. Poetry wasn’t simply a matter of passion, after all. It took weeks of work and editing just to produce a single stanza. The circus was like that, too. So much effort to make it seem effortless. Francis’s heart opened, suddenly.

Here was the difference between Ivan Braginsky and Francis Bonnefoy: Ivan struggled to write because he didn’t always know what he wanted to say, though all his words came from the heart. He believed in things, even the silly things – like soulmates, or fortunetelling, true love. Oh, love was easy for Francis, of course. Easy to accept, easy to reject. He had so many lovers, so many muses. But the truth was that while Francis had the talent – and the passion – for songs and tales, he had long since stopped believing in them.

When the bonfire went white, when those colors had danced across the sky – he’d wanted to.

Francis started, and chuckled to himself. Here he was, with a real problem in his hands, getting distracted by poetry and disappointment. He shouldn’t be wandering back here, anyhow.

He was about to give up and walk back when he heard voices.

“– don’t know what you’ve done!”

English – a Londoner, perhaps. The next voice was also English, but without the refinement. So it had to be an American.

“Maybe I would if you would…!”

“You know why I can’t do that…”

Quiet.

This was probably not the sort of argument that one should eavesdrop on. Francis knew that – and yet? There was a missing child on the line. He had to do something.

He followed the sound.

Clustered between the tents were two young men – both blonde, one dressed in circus-black and the other in plainclothes.

“No, I don’t know!” the circus actor was saying furiously, almost childlike, gesturing hugely with his arms as he spoke. “I don’t know a damn thing about what I’m supposed to be doing because you wouldn’t tell me anything, so now I –”

“You were supposed to stay with di Silva!” the second one, the Englishman hissed. “I gave you explicit instructions, Alfred!”

He looked on the American with fresh eyes. This was the young man whom Ivan was so taken with. Francis could see why. He was obviously handsome, certainly interesting. There was something distinctly alive about him, as if somehow his movements were more dynamic and his colors a little more distinctive than they were for a normal person. He commanded more light than his companion, even on this dark night. But Francis had never gone for the bold types.

The Englishman, on the other hand, was precisely to the poet’s taste. He was facing towards Francis, giving him an excellent vantage point. They were nearly of height and of similar build – which counted for something, as Francis was well-aware of his own good looks. The Englishman gave the distinctive impression of a man who was worldly, hard around the edges but educated. And he had the most wonderful eyes – sharp and green as spring leaves. Terrible shame about those eyebrows, but Francis would make do. Even with his lips pursed in fury, his cap drawn low over his mussed hair – to hide himself? From what? There were so few handsome Englishmen in this world, and it seemed a shame that this one was shy. Francis’s heart fluttered despite the situation.

Alfred was saying, “Stay with di Silva and do what? Write his letters and go to parties? Yeah, right. How am I supposed to demonstrate my abilities if I’m stuck in Rome?”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done with that little lightshow of yours?” the Englishman demanded, a note of genuine fear in his voice. “Alfred, this is dangerous! This is not the kind of game that you play at! You’ve already risked too much by –”

The Englishman’s eyes widened.

“What the hell do you want?”

Francis wasn’t surprised that they’d spotted him before he revealed himself; it wasn’t as if he were intending to sneak around. He smiled and stepped into full view.

“Pardon me, _monsieurs_ , but I’m –”

“You can’t be back here,” said Alfred, though he didn’t look particularly upset. He seemed surprised to see anyone else. “This is for staff only, pal.”

What a vulgar word. Francis’s nose wrinkled, but he kept his eyes on the Englishman.

“My apologies, of course. But you see –”

“What did you hear?” asked the Englishman, cold and imposing. “Who are you?”

Well, so much for his pretty face. Francis felt his smile melting away. “You may call me Francis. And I assure you that I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. It’s just that I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. A little boy – about eight years old, dark hair with little curls, speaks Italian and seems to curse a lot –”

Alfred swore softly. “Lovino! Damn it. What happened?”

“At the bonfire,” said Francis, noting the way that the Englishman stiffened and glared at Alfred, “his poor brother fainted unexpectedly. My friend and I tried to help but they ran off, and now we’ve lost them. I tried to follow them –”

“Christ,” said Alfred, “Eliza’s gonna have our heads. Thanks for warning me, uh – Francis?”

“Yes. I’m a friend of Ivan’s, I believe that we were supposed to meet later.”

Francis watched the young man’s face when he said this, gauging his reaction. Alfred’s shoulders went a bit slack, his eyes sliding away, and then, a shifting of his jaw and his hands going up towards his neck. He’d forgotten all about it but at least had the decency to feel guilty for neglecting his friend. But then, his eyes refocused once more and his posture straightened up. Back to business.

“Well, sorry about this,” said Alfred. “Um. Nice meeting you anyway?”

Francis nodded politely at him.

“I’m going to go search for Lovino. Don’t worry about this one anymore, okay? I’ll take care of everything.”

“Alfred, we are not through with this conversation,” said the Englishman sharply.

Francis did not think of Alfred Jones as a cold person. In his letters, Ivan had fondly described his energy and his determination, his childlike laziness and his endearing awkwardness. But the person he’d seen here, in this moment, didn’t match up to those descriptions at all. Watching the way that Alfred’s eyes went cold at those words, Francis had a sudden idea of why.

As the American rushed off, Francis looked at the Englishman with new curiosity.

“Lover’s quarrel?” he suggested, half teasing.

The Englishman pulled a disgusted, exasperated face. “Family business.”

“Ah, I see,” said Francis, who hadn’t really believed that they were lovers but was relieved to hear the confirmation all the same. “A troublesome relative. I know a thing or two about those. I could tell you stories about some of my dear cousins in Marseilles – and they say that I’m the rebellious one of the family,” he added with a light laugh, extending his hand and moving closer. “Francis Bonnefoy. A pleasure, _monsieur_ –?”

The Englishman did not move to accept his hand. His stare was hard and suspicious.

“Who are you, really?”

Francis considered the question. “A poet, _monsieur_. But more than that, a man who would be delighted just to know your name.”

The Englishman scoffed.

“Ridiculous.”

“How so?”

“Whatever it is you’re up to,” said the Englishman, “know that I want no part in it. I have my own business to attend to now, you understand? Besides, it’s unlikely that I shall ever see you again, so there’s really no point in introducing myself, is there?”

Francis’s heart stirred hopefully. “Circus business, perhaps?”

"Absolutely not."

"Please," said Francis, who was sure that he could break through that icy mask, who wanted to believe, despite everything. "I must know."

“Don’t you have a missing child to find?”

And with that, the Englishman walked away. Francis tried to follow, but he was lost within the maze of tents.

* * *

Morning inched closer, stars fading one by one. Kiku was beginning to feel exhausted. He was amazed by how many people had actually decided to stay until dawn. Though the crowds for his shows were dwindling, he still made it through his entire schedule. His finale, scheduled to end at four AM, even had a few returners from the early evening shows. Kiku was surprised but flattered all the same. They were just as attentive and enthralled as they were before. 

At last, he took his final bow.

His audience stood and applauded him earnestly.

He straightened up, turned, and bowed once more, repeating the process until he had faced all four directions – north, south, east, and west.

The audience saw him straighten up and pivot one last time – and vanish.

Kiku took a deep breath. Transporting himself in that way took a fair bit of energy, especially after such a long night, but he was relieved to be back in his private quarters. The room – located in a cart of the circus’s specially contracted train – had two parts, divided by a paper screen decorated with painted flowers. The larger portion was for the twins, who had agreed to share a small, Western style bed until they could get their own rooms. Kiku slept on a futon, and required only enough space to fold his clothes and costumes. He changed into a robe, lit a candle and drew out his sketchbook from his hiding place once more, seeking comfort in the familiar, ink-stained pages.

He could not find his pen, and so he did it by hand.

The characters flowed from his fingertips as he ran them down the pages, detailing all the things that had happened that night. His thrill of preforming, a thing which he had not expected – the problem of the bonfire – his questions, the mystery of his opponent – and his disappointment, his fear that Alfred Jones had forgotten him entirely.

It was probably nothing, but still.

He pulled the image from his mind and put it down on the paper, pressing it with his palm.

The likeness was a good one, which pleased him.

He continued on like this – and probably would have stayed in his room, writing and drawing until the break of dawn, had there not been a knock at the door.

Kiku hid his sketchbook and went for the door.

Roderich stood before him, dark circles of sleeplessness already forming under his eyes.

“Mr. Edelstein –”

“So sorry to bother you, Mr. Honda,” said Roderich, far less polite than usual. “But you wouldn’t have happened to see the twins recently, would you?”

Kiku checked in their section and found the bed empty.

“Damn,” said Roderich, who never cursed. He considered it improper. “Wonderful. Antonio,” he explained, prim with indignation, “that scatterbrained fool, was dumb enough to let the boys attend the bonfire lighting by themselves. Now it seems they’ve run off, and –”

“They watched the bonfire?”

“Yes, I just explained it. Now, if you’d excuse me –”

“Let me get my shoes.”

Roderich made an uncomfortable noise. “Ah – no, Mr. Honda, please don’t trouble yourself. I didn’t mean to worry you, but I’ve had so little sleep that I –”

“I would be happy to help. Please, don’t worry about me. The boys are my responsibility first and foremost. If anything, I must apologize for being negligent in my duties towards them. You should get some rest, Mr. Edelstein. Allow me to continue on your behalf.”

While Roderich blustered to disguise the fact that he was happy to have an excuse to take a break, Kiku managed to find his sandals. He made the necessary assurances and niceties and – as soon as Roderich was resting comfortably – raced into the emptying circus. The twins, the young magicians, his first apprentices – who? And why? Try as Kiku might, he could not stop his hands from shaking.

* * *

The circus was all but empty now. A few particularly enchanted patrons remained in the last open tents, while a few gregarious ones had offered to join the impromptu search party, combing the circus high and low for signs of the twins. Alfred found Lovino just a few moments before Ivan did, hidden in acrobat’s dressing room. There was no time to question it. The two of them used every method short of physical violence – as was suggested by Basch Zwingli – to remove the boy from his spot beneath a dressing table. In the end, it was Lilian Zwingli who coaxed him out. As a reward, she offered him his pick from a box of chocolates and a kiss on the cheek. After that, he was more than happy to rejoin them. She took him by the hand and walked back with her brother, Alfred, and Ivan towards the bonfire, where Elizabeta Edelstein was waiting with a small crowd of dismayed helpers.

“Lovino!”

She ran forward, dropped to her knees – never mind the dirt that would ruin her fine skirt – and threw her arms around him.

“I’m so glad you’re safe!” she cried, squeezing Lovino so tightly that he grumbled.

Basch glared at Antonio, and the usually-smiling Spaniard wilted. “If you’re not going to pay attention to him, then don’t come crying to me when he gets upset.”

Lilian patted her brother’s arm.

“Maybe next time, we can volunteer to watch the boys as a group. That way, no one feels lonely!”

He scoffed, but his gaze was much softer after she’d spoken.

Lovino, red-faced and pouting, looked relieved to be released from Elizabeta’s arms.

“Where’s Feli?”

Alfred glanced at Ivan, who shook his head.

The manager smiled reassuringly. “Hey, don’t worry, kiddo! Any minute now, he’ll come running back. Trust me!”

Lovino’s face went dark again.

“Liar,” he said. “This is all your fault.”

Elizabeta frowned. “Lovino, don’t say things like that.”

“What? It’s true,” the boy glared at them. He spoke Italian, so only his caretakers and Alfred really understood. “If you hadn’t come here, none of this would have happened.”

“Lovino, I think it’s time for you to get to bed,” said Elizabeta sternly. “Say goodnight.”

Though the boy resisted, she lifted him up and carried him off as if he were nothing more than a doll. Ivan watched Alfred, who had gone a bit pale. He still had on his Charming Face, assuring the actors – his staff, now – that Lovino was just tired and worried about his brother. He was their leader now and had to act as a leader should. Strong, even when he didn’t feel like it. Ivan wondered if the others would notice, or if they would ever come to know Alfred as he did. For a moment, he even forgot that he was supposed to be mad at his friend.

“Alfred.”

“It’s fine,” said Alfred, cutting him off before he could even start. “Feliciano probably just got tired and went to bed on his own. He’s not stupid and he wouldn’t run off on us. And as for the rest, this is just – just the first night, you know? We’ve still got to iron out some of the wrinkles in the act. But it’ll work out, like I said. Trust me.”

“I do,” said Ivan, surprised. “I just wanted to let you know…”

He trailed off, cursing himself. So much had happened since sunset; the sun would be up in just a few more hours. It felt like all the things he’d wanted to say didn’t even matter at this point. The new day was already started.

Alfred smiled suddenly. “You’re a great friend, you know that?”

_Did you know that your father was here? Why don’t you listen to me? I am in love with you._ Looking at Alfred’s face, Ivan just didn’t have the heart to tell him.

“Yes,” he said. “I know that.”

* * *

 “Feliciano? Feliciano, please answer me!”

Kiku stood on the boundary of the Circus of Dreams, staring at the gate that encircled them. He wondered if Feliciano could have climbed the fence somehow, or even if he managed to squeeze through the gaps in the curled, decorative iron. The sky paled to violet at the edges, a sure sign of dawn. Light was already spilling over the English countryside. Behind him, the city of London woke. And no sign of Kiku’s young apprentice anywhere.

“ _Feliciano_!”

His voice startled a pair of birds in a tree, but the circus remained silent.

Kiku rubbed at his eyes, trying to remain calm. They would search, of course – but how much could they do when they were all so tired from Opening Night? He never should have left the boy out of his sight. He should have taken more care with his schedule, with their training.

He would never know what Feliciano had seen at the bonfire.

“Pardon me, sir.”

Kiku turned, startled.

A young man had appeared from between the tents, so quiet that Kiku had not even heard him approach. He was English, going from the sound of his voice, and casually dressed, with a cap pulled low over his eyes. Kiku did not recognize him as a member of the circus, but it didn’t occur to him to remind the man that they were closed for the day.

“I don’t mean to disturb you,” said the young man, seeming genuinely embarrassed. “I know it’s late – er, early. I was just on my way out but… I’ve found something that you might want to see.”

Kiku was not sure he could handle another problem on top of the night he’d already endured. He sighed, nodded, and followed the trespasser through the tents. Patrons were not allowed back here; if he managed to see Alfred again, Kiku would remind him to find a way to secure this part of the circus. Or perhaps Kiku could find a way to do it himself. It was, after all, his arena – his game, now. Surely it would count for something if he prevented accidents like this. But how to go about such a task? And how to maintain it long-term…

“Here,” said the trespasser, who had led Kiku to the cook’s station. The grass around their supplies was littered with tomatoes. Several of the crates were upturned. The trespasser indicated one that had remained perfectly upright and sealed. “I just happened to come by and noticed something was off, and then I found…”

Kiku went to his knees. “Feliciano?”

A sniffling noise answered him.

“Feliciano, it’s me,” he said, switching to Italian. “We were so worried. Come out now. Please?”

This time, Kiku heard a sob.

“Do you know who this is?” asked the trespasser.

Kiku nodded, and repeated the story that he and the Edelsteins had agreed upon. “He is the ward of one of our financiers. An orphan. It seems that he saw something in the circus that scared him, and he’s been missing for most of the night.”

“I see. Er, do you mind?”

At first, Kiku did not understand. Then, the Englishman put his hand on the crate and spoke a few quiet words.

Silence.

Then, Feliciano pushed up on the lid of the crate and emerged, red-eyed from crying and shivering from cold. Kiku immediately removed his jacket and put it over the boy’s thin shoulders, helping him to stand on the grass once more.

“You speak Italian well,” said Kiku, smiling in relief. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” said the trespasser, shrugging. “It’s just – well, I’ve got kids of my own, so…”

Feliciano yawned and leaned against Kiku’s legs. “I’m sleepy…” he mumbled, but Kiku doubted that he had the strength to carry the boy all the way back to the bonfire. Instead, he readjusted, propping the boy up against his body as best he could.

“I can’t thank you enough. Really, Mr. – um.”

Kiku blinked and looked around. The trespasser had vanished. The sun broke over the horizon, turning the land to gold; it was morning, and the dream was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, Hell is nice. The weather's fine!
> 
> I think I mentioned this before, but I am in graduate school now so I've got a lot of work on my plate. I swear that my stories are not dead - they're just very tired lmao. I'm still trying to work on them but I really hope you'll be able to stick with me even if updates don't come for awhile. I really appreciate every person who's reviewed this fic and loved it; your comments don't just make my day, they make my whole entire month!!! Thank you thank you thank you from the bottom of my heart! Bear with me, and I'll catch you next update!!!


	11. middlegame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> surprise, I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me

Kiku did not sleep the next day. He stayed at Feliciano’s side, waiting for him to wake. Antonio came by twice with snacks and apologies; Elizabeta and Roderich kept Lovino occupied in the city. Outside, the sun rose and lightened his room, the shadows shrinking. Kiku poured his thoughts into paper, folded them into birds, and cast them out. 

At last, the light went gold and the shadows grew long, and Feliciano stirred.

“I’m hungry,” he mumbled, which was how Kiku knew that he would be fine. He produced a plate of sandwiches and offered one to Feliciano. The boy took the whole plate and wolfed everything down, which was how Kiku knew that he really must’ve been starved. Feliciano was the pickiest orphan that Kiku had ever known, and he’d hated everything they’d had to eat in England but today, there were no complaints. When the last sandwich had been demolished, he gazed down at the empty plate as if it might refill itself. 

Kiku took out Antonio’s snack tray: popcorn and chocolate-covered churros. It wasn’t healthy but it was better than nothing.

Feliciano beamed. “Thank you, Kiku! I’m feeling so much better now, so you can tell everyone that they don’t need to worry about me anymore. Where’s Ara? Where’s Lovi?”

“Ara is out for a walk, and Lovino went into town today.”

“Oh, he won’t like that very much. London has so many shadows, he told me that he hopes we never come back here.”

He had told Kiku of this fact as well, but Lovino was a lot more resilient than he pretended to be. One more day in the city wouldn’t be the end of him. It might even prove to be an excellent opportunity for him to practice managing his abilities. 

“I like England,” said Feliciano, surprising Kiku. “Maybe we don’t have to come back to London, but I’m sure Lovino wouldn’t mind it if we stayed somewhere in the countryside like this.”

Kiku nodded but said, “We may not come back to this country for a long while, Feliciano.”

“But we will,” said Feliciano confidently. “Someday!”

Suddenly, his face fell. 

“Are you still feeling ill?”

“No… I’m okay. I just feel bad for worrying everyone.”

“Do you remember what happened at all?” Kiku asked, heart pounding. “After the bonfire, you went missing for hours.”

The story that Kiku had managed to uncover so far went like this: Antonio was babysitting the twins at his snack booth. There was no one to cover for him, and so he told the boys that they could go see the bonfire lighting on their own, on the condition that they went right to the Big Top afterwards and met with Sadiq, who had the next babysitting shift. But Feliciano had fainted during the ceremony – probably, Kiku guessed, as a result of whichever spell his opponent had cast at midnight. Ivan the Fortuneteller and his friend tried to help, but the twins were lost in the crowd. Lovino had, ironically, done as instructed and run for the Big Top, where he had hidden in the acrobat’s dressing room unnoticed until one of the girls dropped an earring under her makeup table. And as for Feliciano… 

Kiku's next mission, now that the arena had been set, was to find his opponent. To understand them and to surpass them. But he did not know where to start on any of these fronts. He did not know how to best display his talents outside of his nightly acts in his tent. He did not have the slightest clue of who his opponent might be. Yao had been vague with his information at best. This was his first - and possibly his best and only lead.

But Feliciano shook his head. 

“Antonio told us it was okay to leave and so we went to the bonfire. Then, I heard someone call out for me. Then, I fainted. When I woke up, Ivan yelled at me, so I just ran away. That’s it, I don’t remember anything else, I’m sorry, Kiku.”

Kiku sighed, his eyes sliding automatically to his sketchbook. What did they say in English? Back to the drawing board.

“It’s alright, Feliciano. It wasn’t your fault.”

* * *

Earlier that afternoon, Francis rose from an uneasy sleep. He had more questions than answers after last night. Sometime just before dawn, he had staggered back to the bonfire and been informed that the twins were safe and he ought to get going. He managed to make it back to his rooms in London just as most normal people were getting up for breakfast. His hotel’s staff were not pleased by his behavior, and informed him that if he were to make any more “questionable nightly excursions,” then he could find another establishment – and forget about a refund.

Francis bit back his instinct to argue. This hotel was far from first-class, and yet they wanted to act as though he had somehow managed to insult the Queen herself with his behavior. But he would have a hard time finding another room in London on such short notice, and if he were thrown out now, he would have no way of getting back to the circus and finding the Englishman.

Remembering the encounter gave him a peculiar sense of déjà vu. So much of it had been dreamlike – just as advertised by the circus. And yet it was real; it had happened, and that man existed somewhere on Earth. He had a name, a family – a family which included Alfred Jones. Francis had been so long without a muse like this. He could write a dozen poems about his eyes alone. They would have titles like “copperfire,” and “incomparable pearl,” and they would start at the bonfire and end in a maze, and the longing within would make hearts ache. 

Francis Bonnefoy had always been more interested in people than in things. So that was why, out of all the remarkable things he’d witnessed in the Circus of Dreams, the idea of “that Englishman” was what he carried in his heart the next morning.

Ignoring his terrible manners and other faults, of course.

At the very least, it would certainly be interesting to see him again.

Francis pulled the black and white business card from the circus.  _Free Admission._

This would come in very useful.

* * *

Night fell and the circus opened its gates once more.

The bonfire roared, a crescent moon shivered above the cold English countryside.

Yong Soo swallowed fire, the Zwingli siblings walked on air, and Kiku Honda transported his audience to far-flung places. 

Ivan read his cards, dutifully but unhappily. English society, he decided, was insipid and boring. The women who came to him only wanted to know about “tall, dark, and handsome,” like they were the heroines in some romantic novel. The men stood stiffly, eyeing the door like they couldn’t wait to leave with their sisters or daughters or wives asked endless questions. Again and again, Ivan was forced to remind them that he could not actually predict the future. 

A few times, children came in unaccompanied. They ranged from the sort that Ivan could easily imagine as being responsible enough to manage themselves in a circus – to the sort that made Ivan suspect that Michela was looking the other way out of pity for whatever sob story that the little demons had brought to her.

This, at least, was more interesting. Children did not ask stupid questions.

“I got told that girls can’t be doctors,” said one twelve-year-old girl with an upturned nose. “Do the cards say that that’s true or naw?”

She drew the Ace of Wands. “This card represents vigor and innovation. It means being able to accomplish your goals, no matter what stands in your path. So I would say that you ought to try and prove everyone wrong.” 

The girl left his tent with a smug smile on her face.

Things like that made Ivan feel as though the whole enterprise was worthwhile. 

The second night of the circus was going much better than the first, all things considered. Feliciano was still resting after his ordeal, under the watchful eye of Emma Vandermeer, who kept him pacified with an endless supply of her signature chocolate-covered waffles. (A miracle that the boy didn’t make himself sick, everyone said.) Lovino was with Antonio, the Spaniard determined to prove himself a worthy guardian once more. Ivan had slept little and spent most of the afternoon and evening playing a game of catch-up with Alfred. 

He only saw Alfred once that day – just before midnight, and it was only his torso, as he stuck his head through the door in his tent.

“Hey, uh, so – you haven’t seen your buddy the poet around have you?”

Ivan rose halfway from his chair.

“No, he hasn’t come by.” Ivan was pretty sure that Francis wouldn’t be entirely offended by yesterday’s debacle but he hadn’t sent any messages over the day. Maybe he was just tired. “Why do you ask? Is there something –?”

“Just wondering! Thanks, Ivan, I’ll see you in the morning!”

“Alfred!”

By the time Ivan made it to the door, Alfred had run off again.

This was getting to be a habit. 

His fortunes grew more pessimistic as the night wore on. 

“Aren’t fortunetellers supposed to tell you the good stuff?” asked one disgruntled man, as his frowning girlfriend clutched his arm. “What’s eating him, eh?”

Lovesickness and unanswered questions, for a start.

* * *

The reason that Alfred had asked was because two hours earlier, Francis had been in the circus.

Their encounter went like this:

“ _Mon ami_ ,” said Bonnefoy, smiling lazily. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time. The barbarians who run my hotel have threatened to throw me into the street if I continue staying out all night. I do hope I didn’t cause you any trouble last night.”

“Oh,” said Alfred, glancing around. “Uh, no, actually you were a big help. We found the twins alright, so…”

“I’m so happy to hear that!”

Bonnefoy’s eyes were bright with eagerness, a contrast to his casual posture. Alfred wondered if he was trying to guilt-trip him again, like he had yesterday. Honestly, he did feel bad about ditching Ivan like he did, but he was the manager now and the game was on. Duty calls.

“So, Ivan’s not really around right now but –”

“Fret not, I have not come to trouble Ivan once more,” said Bonnefoy. “I was simply worried about the boys. I truly am happy that they’re safe. But – what about you, _monsieur_? You seemed to be having some kind of trouble with your – cousin, was it?”

Alfred winced.

“Yeah, uh. It’s a family thing. No need for you or anyone else to get involved.”

Even as he said it, he thought about Ivan and felt another stab of guilt.

“What was his name again?” Bonnefoy mused. “I can’t quite recall.”

Alfred was starting to feel downright anxious. He hadn’t seen his father since that conversation. For all he knew, Arthur Kirkland had gone back to doing whatever it was he did when he wasn’t trying to control Alfred’s every move. Had Bonnefoy talked to his father when he ran off to find Lovino? 

“Why?”

“Oh, no reason. He seemed concerned about the boys and offered to help. We ought to thank him for his help.”

Kiku had come back to the bonfire just when all of them had started to fear the worst. He was quiet about it, more concerned with Feliciano’s safety and his need to rest than he was about whatever had happened. Even now, Alfred was clueless as to the details of what occurred at the bonfire or why the boys had run off in the first place. He hadn’t even had a chance to apologize to Kiku for missing their appointment.

That was what mattered – the game. Kiku. And Arthur Kirkland was all but out of the picture, so there was probably no harm in telling the weird French poet his name, right? 

“It’s Arthur,” said Alfred. “Arthur Kirkland. But good luck tracking him down because he hates everybody and never stays in one place for too long, so you really ought to –”

But Francis had not been listening at that point. Arthur Kirkland. A simple, yet sophisticated name. Concise without being brusque, somehow quintessentially English. A common name, a name for a king. Alfred did not notice, continuing to babble about the ways that his father went about avoiding human contact.

“Thank you again, _mon ami_ ,” said Bonnefoy. “It was a genuine pleasure to meet you.”

He must have left just after that. And he hadn’t even gone to see Ivan. Alfred had no idea what to make of it. Why would the poet come all this way just to ask about his father? The idea of anyone being interested in Arthur Kirkland made Alfred feel off-kilter somehow. He was torn between types of suspicion, while also being forced to remember that his father, once-upon-a-time, was an actual human person. Did he talk to other people when Alfred wasn’t around? He was friends with di Silva, sort of… And then there was Yao, the man with no shadow.

Game’s on.

The next place he went was to Kiku’s cabin.

Technically, it was also Feliciano and Lovino’s bedroom. But that didn’t make it less of Kiku’s place. Alfred felt like he was intruding when he stood on the threshold, unwilling to cross it though Emma ventured to assure him that Kiku wouldn’t mind. 

“Actually, I just wanted to talk to the kid, if I could.”

Emma sized him up. She was five and a half feet tall in heels, and refused to dye her blonde hair for the circus. Instead, she accessorized with a variety of black and white patterned scarves. She had a doll-like face and was the most intimidating person in the circus, bar none. Alfred swallowed around a lump in his throat.

“Fine,” she decided. “Wait here.”

Feliciano emerged. His cheek was stained with chocolate but he seemed to be his usual self.

“Are you looking for Kiku?” he asked.

Alfred shrugged. “Actually, I was looking for you. I, uh, wanted to make sure you were feeling okay after what happened yesterday.”

Feliciano beamed. “Oh, yes, everyone has been so nice to me because of it! I love the circus, I hope it stays this way forever! I just wish I could remember what happened because I can’t but people keep asking me about it. Kiku was sad that I can’t remember anything, and I wish I could help him more because of everything he’s done for us, but…”

“Help Kiku?”

Feliciano put one of his chocolate-covered hands to his cheek, creating a fresh smear. “Oh! I’m not supposed to talk about it. Lovino always says I talk too much. But don’t worry! I know that Kiku will tell you everything when he’s ready because he already likes you a lot.”

“Oh,” said Alfred, unsure of what to do with this information. “Thanks?” 

“You’re welcome!”

Alfred took his leave, unsure if he should be pleased or confused by this interaction. 

His last stop was Kiku’s tent. He peeked inside to find a full house, all the audience enraptured as Kiku worked, silent and entirely magical. Alfred saw only the line of his back, the twists of his hands. He drew up a scarf and turned it into a cloud, holding it above the head of a little boy who grinned toothily when fat raindrops fell to his head. If there had been empty seats, he would have gone in and watched it for himself. He would have stayed until Kiku’s break and then he would have tried to start over – really start over, this time.

Alfred started and shook his head. Start over - over what? As if they were simply two strangers with a budding friendship and not... whatever it was they were supposed to be. 

 _Kiku will tell you everything when he is ready. He likes you a lot._

_...explicit instructions..._

_If you hadn't come here, then none of this would have happened!_

Courage failed him. Heart hammering in his ribs, Alfred marched back into the circus. 

The night wore on. The wind whistled in the empty spaces between tents, and everyone shivered.

* * *

By the end of the week, the Circus of Dreams was the talk of London. Everyone knew someone who had been inside the gates, and the stories got grander and grander with each retelling. Even some of the nobility were planning to attend. But just as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone. They looked over to the hills and, where the tent city had once stood, only grass and wildflowers remained. The city's disappointment was palpable. Event the weather took a turn for the worse - the signature rain and gloom sweeping over the Thames with a vengeance. 

Francis Bonnefoy boarded a ferry with his  _Free Admission's_ card tucked into his breast pocket for safekeeping. He was deeply happy to return to his beloved Paris, but at the same time, sad to leave. Despite his brief, turbulent time in the dream-world, he had enjoyed himself immensely. He'd even managed to get in contact with Ivan before the train departed for good. Alfred Jones had revealed the circus's itinerary to Ivan so that they would have a means to contact each other - a thoughtful thing for him to do. Francis hoped that someday he would see Paris on the list.

_Arthur Kirkland._

He was out there, somewhere. Maybe not in London. For all of Francis's considerable efforts, no one in seemed to have heard of an "Arthur Kirkland." But the challenge simply made the game more exciting. He had a reputation as a hedonist, but Francis Bonnefoy knew how to work when work was necessary. And he was far more patient than one might assume. 

As the ferry pulled out into the choppy waters of the Channel, he lounged on the deck, despite the cold weather. He pulled out his notepad, littered with words and phrases and titles - and he began to write.

* * *

 

Thousands of miles away, in a city that had stood for a thousand years, a man was dying – or so the gossips said. Romulus di Silva, he of the bronze suits and glamorous parties, the man who’d shaped so much of the last few decades in Rome society. The man who stood above all of Italy, and all of the world. He had been ill for weeks, and it was serious. Many feared that this was the end. They said that he’d even written up a last will.

He received fewer visitors than one might’ve expected for such a great man in his final hours. Perhaps everyone simply wanted to pretend that it wasn’t happening. It was the idea that if everyone believed in something hard enough, then that thing became true. If the world pretended that Romulus di Silva would live, then he would.

In fact, Romulus di Silva only received one visitor.

A low layer of fog twisted over the Wolf House as the visitor approached, his movements subtle despite the eye-catching scarlet that he wore. Wang Yao did not wait to be announced. For him, there was no such thing as a locked door. He wiped his shoes but left them on, since he had no intentions to linger. He glided through the atrium, up the staircase, down through the halls. It was just after dawn; the servants were barely rousing themselves. 

Yao found di Silva’s room and knocked politely.

His old friend slept, peaceful enough. His chest rattled with every breath; this unnatural chill in Rome had done nothing for his health. He was looking older now. His hair grayed, his eyes paled, his skin wrinkling like paper. Yao felt an enormous sense of pity and loss, but no regret. He was, fundamentally, a selfish man, and could not bear to give up anything.

Yao debated whether or not to wake him.

In the end, he decided that he’d already done enough.

“Oh, get up,” he said half-heartedly, reaching into his sleeve for a small, engraved box. “You made a deal with me, remember? And besides, we both know that you’re not ready to give up just yet. The show’s only just begun.”

Yao opened the box to reveal a small pill-shaped bundle of herbs and petals. 

He let it rest across his palm, where it came to light in a flash. 

Fragrant smoke filled the room. 

He snapped the fingers of his free hand, and the smoke curled like a dragon, diving down over and directly into di Silva’s face.

The old man woke gasping.

Emilia, one of the pretty young things who worked in the kitchens, nearly dropped her tray of coffee and tea when she saw the smoke beneath the door. Despite her age and inexperience, she was quite loyal to di Silva. She rushed in and found that someone had left a candlestick alight on the nightstand, a former tower of red wax that had burnt down to the nub. She dowsed it with the pot of tea and threw open a window, ignoring the cold as it rushed in. She helped her employer sit up, calling for help as loudly as she could. But it turned out that there was no need.

Within three days, di Silva had all but recovered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy howdy I did not expect to finish this chapter as quickly as I did. Real talk, now that I feel I've really set up who the characters are and what their roles are, I can actually deviate from the structure of the novel this is based on a little more - which means from here on out, it may actually be anybody's game. It's... much easier to write like that, in a way. 
> 
> (Also, I've got a few weeks until I have to start thinking about finals!! WHOOOOOO!!) 
> 
> As I said when I posted the last chapter, frequent updates like this are not the norm! I'm doing the best I can but if duty calls, duty calls, and school comes first! That being said, I love love love you guys and I can't tell you how much I appreciate your comments and reviews!! Thank you and catch you next update!!


	12. crystal eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm struggling a bit on the next chapter, so I made a quick playlist for the fic. If you'd like to hear some of the songs that inspire me when I'm writing these chapters, here's a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2Zu7qJqDXQ&list=PLFActrwbIqnuySqsLlWR90Y_zlJ2Ww9op
> 
> Let me know if it doesn't work, and let me know if you enjoy!! Happy reading!!

By the end of the week, the Circus of Dreams was the talk of London. Everyone knew someone who had been inside; there was even talk of having members of the royal family attend. But just as soon as it appeared, it vanished. Even the weather took a turn for the worse as winter rolled in with vengeance, leaving the city cold and wet and disappointed.

Within a day or so, the circus had reappeared in sunny Barcelona, a pale and dark shock outside the usually colorful city. Antonio took a night off to give the twins the royal tour. But all too soon, once more, the circus had vanished.

Francis Bonnefoy lingered all day in Paris’s busiest train station, waiting for the telltale sign of the circus’s train passing through. He debated pooling his spare cash for a ticket to Amsterdam, but ultimately decided against it. Instead, he wrote – furiously, unceasingly – draining every word in his vocabulary and then some. Already, there were whispers in the street, rumors of a most marvelous circus that arrived without warning and left at the peak of its intrigue.

A few enterprising fellows made the trek to the Wolf House in Rome, where disgruntled staff answered the door and replied firmly that no, Signor di Silva was not available for comment at this time. All of this only increased the fury of Francis’s pens; the circus would be wasted on these second-rate excuses for authors. If anyone was going to break this piece, it was going to be Francis Bonnefoy. But time was running short.

After Amsterdam was Vienna, for Christmas. The twins went to a Christmas market and even had dinner at the Edelstein’s house. Elizabeta brought out suggestions – new costumes, new arrangements for tents – while Roderch brought only his sharp tongue and critical eye.

“It’s a shame you haven’t come up with any tents,” he said to Alfred. “I do hope you’ll think of something soon. Even a dream gets boring after you’ve had it so many times.”

* * *

_Dearest Katyusha…_

Ivan could not, for the life of him, figure out what to write next. It was their last day in Vienna, and if he didn’t get this letter postmarked in a few hours, then he’d be forced to show up on his sister’s doorstep with no warning. She wouldn’t mind, of course. In all the years they’d lived together, Katya never once complained, not even during the days of double shifts and burned dinners and not enough money for new shoes. She only ever smiled and supported him. But it had been four years since he’d left. He was a very different man, and he wanted to prepare her for the change as best he could.

The door to his room opened suddenly. Alfred appeared, grinning.

“Hey, you missed the dinner bell so I was just –”

Despite Ivan’s automatic attempt to cover it, Alfred spotted the letter instantly.

“Oooh, who’s that for?”

“My sister. You know, the one I’ve told you about a hundred or so times?”

“I thought so. Make sure to emphasize how smart and handsome and successful I am!”

“Ha, ha,” said Ivan dryly. “Not everything is about you. Besides, I’ve already warned her that you’re lazy and a nuisance, so at this point anything else would be excessive.”

Alfred pouted. “I should’ve let you skip dinner, you jackass.”

Ivan smiled and for a minute, it was almost like summer in Rome again.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” he said. “Save a plate for me?”

“I’ll try,” Alfred said, sighing dramatically, “but who knows? Maybe Yong Soo’s already eaten everything by now.”

“He’d better not. Otherwise, it won’t be the acrobats making headlines in Vienna.”

“Ha! I can just picture it – Murder Most Foul!”

“It will be foul,” Ivan promised. “Just make sure that you save me some potatoes, please.”

“Sure! Don’t work too hard – and remember! Young, handsome, smart, successful!”

“Alfred –”

The door swung definitively shut. Of course, he always had to have the last word.

Ivan listened to his footsteps fade, aching. The pain was intense, despite this being Ivan’s usual reaction to watching Alfred leave a room, not knowing when – or even if – he would come back. The one thing that he had not anticipated was the volume of Alfred’s new responsibilities. There was hardly any time for them to spend together as friends anymore.

He picked up the pen and hunched back over his desk.

 

_Dearest Katyusha,_

_I’m sorry I haven’t had much time to write. My new job has been keeping me busy. I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble; you really don’t need to worry about me. Even if I haven’t been able to finish any of my old projects, I’m taking good care of myself and working hard, as you’ve always taught me._

_On the other hand, I confess that I’m extremely worried about you, Katya. Your last letter was so short, which seemed very unlike you. Knowing as much as you worry about me, I feel like I need to remind you to take care of yourself as well._

_But I’ll be returning to Moscow soon enough. (It was my friend’s idea. You’ll meet him soon enough. He’s_ …)

 

Here, again Ivan paused, feeling like his chest was constricted. It took an awfully long time to untangle the mess of feelings in his heart, even though fundamentally, it all came down to a single word: Alfred. _He is, he is. He is a marvel, a mystery, and a joy. He is lightning, he is an exploding star. He is the world to me_. But how was he meant to explain that to his sister? 

Face-to-face.

That was the thing he settled on.

These words could not be trusted for pen and paper. The people you loved deserved the truth.

The pen dripped – dripped – dripped – until Ivan blotted the paper and started again.

 

_He’s a lot to take in at first, but I’m sure you’ll like him.) I hope to see you again when I arrive; I’ve already asked the night off. We can have dinner and catch up. I’m sure you have so much to tell me; I know I could spend a hundred years telling you about all the things that have happened to me…_

 

The light outside was fading, the pale midwinter sun vanishing in a wisp of pink and gold; Ivan had not realized how late it was. The meal call had long since come and gone, but Alfred had not returned with his plate. He would have to run to post the letter. Ivan hastily finished:

_But like I said, we can talk more about that when I visit. I hope to see you again soon._

_Your brother,_  
_Ivan_

Ivan folded and addressed the letter, tucking it into his pocket as he reached for his coat. He would have to go into town with his circus clothes on; there was no other way that he’d make it back in time for dusk.

The Circus of Dreams traveled by train – enchanted train, Alfred had told him. It was part of his burst of genius that inspired the bonfire. Most of the actors had their own carts, unless they elected to share with friends or family. Everything they needed could be transported with ease. When they traveled, the train seemed to have no beginning and no end. Most of the other actors seemed not to notice the off-kilter parts of it – the lack of a regular crew, the perpetual absence of a driver – or, if they did notice, they said nothing. Ivan wondered if this was the reason why Alfred seemed so busy. He had jumped right from believing that he had no talent to transporting their entire circus across a continent. Of course the fool would have no concept of “moderation.”

As dusk approached, the train bustled with activity. Soon enough it would empty as the actors went to take their places. Ivan hadn’t missed an evening since Opening Night; Elizabeta had given him hell for his first disappearing act, even when he explained that he’d done it to help the twins. She’d even threatened to go to di Silva and Ivan would not risk being thrown out of the circus.

They had set up camp outside the city, as was their habit. Alfred had decided that this was best for winter months; cities with large greenspaces could be useful for the summertime if he could get permission to use them. He’d even researched beachfronts with enough space to set up the Big Top. But Ivan rather liked this location, tucked on the western edge of the city. One could walk out of a dream and into a fairytale, the snow falling lazily, melting as soon as it came in contact with his skin but sticking to his hair and clothes, giving everything a frosted look. It was a gentler winter than he was used to. If all winters looked like Vienna, then perhaps they weren’t so bad.

Ivan had no time to admire the scenery today. He headed straight for the entryway. Despite the fact that a crowd would be gathering, it was the most direct path into town. He passed Emma lighting the lanterns in front of her cart, while Antonio leaned in the window, smiling. The twins were nowhere to be seen; someone else must have babysitting duty. Elsewhere, Eduard was having his silver face-paint redone with the help of Emil, a bird-keeper. The bonfire burned low in its silver hearth, the pale flame almost invisible in the snow.

“Where are you off to?”

Ivan started, immediately guilty though he knew that he’d done nothing wrong. He hadn’t even noticed the fire-eater lounging near the entrance, smoking casually – a European habit that he’d picked up in the past few weeks. Im Yong Soo really could fit in anywhere; even in circus black, he was so natural. And he had finally decided to dress for the weather, adding a smart black coat to his usual ensemble, and a pair of shoes. Ivan was under the distinct impression that Elizabeta had forced a change in wardrobe on him.

Still, how astonishing that he’d managed to survive as long as he had like that.

“Post office,” he replied shortly. “I’ll be back.”

“So late?” Yong Soo jerked his head deliberately towards the dark horizon. “I don’t think so, pal.”

“You’re planning to stop me?”

Ivan raised an eyebrow but Yong Soo only laughed.

“Nah. I’m here to take that letter off your hands. Trust me,” he added, “I’m much faster than the post.”

It wasn’t that he’d written anything secret or scandalous, but still, Ivan would have rather died than hand over this letter.

“I’ll deliver it myself, thanks.”

“Come on,” Yong Soo wheedled him. He took a long drag from his cigarette and blew a perfect ring of smoke. Ivan rolled his eyes. “The post office is closed by now, and we’re leaving first thing tomorrow, so there’s no way that letter will reach its destination in time. I’m not really interested in reading all the mushy stuff you put in there –”

“It’s for my sister.”

Yong Soo smiled. “I know. Alfred’s real excited to meet her.”

When Ivan attempted to reach for the gate, Yong Soo casually stepped in front of him, opening his palm in invitation.

“Haven’t we gotten past this yet?” Yong Soo asked. He smiled, as always, but his eyes were so dark. “When are you going to start understanding the idea that I’m not here to sabotage you?”

“Then why are you here? Will you finally admit it?”

“I’m on your side,” said Yong Soo. “Really, I am. But this isn’t going to go the way you want it. You’ve got to back off before someone gets hurt.”

Something horrible occurred to Ivan.

“Is my sister in any danger?”

“No.”

The answer was prompt, sincere. Ivan relaxed ever-so-slightly. One less worry. Only a thousand more questions to go.

“Well,” he said, pulling the letter. “If you insist.”

Yong Soo smiled and took the paper from his hands. It vanished with a flick of his wrist. Ivan scowled.

“I’m serious – this is the last time I’ll warn you. You’ve got to take a step back from this.”

“Why?” asked Ivan. “You could at least have the decency to warn me of what to expect.”

“I can’t really tell you what to expect,” was the reply. Typical, thought Ivan. “This game is different than last time. But either way, it’s not going to end well for any of you.”

Ivan put his hands back into his empty pockets, grimacing.

“You keep saying that. But I’ll take my chances.”

“Suit yourself,” said Yong Soo, letting his cigarette drop into the snow. “Maybe it’s better for you this way. After all, I’ve always thought that love’s a lesson better learned the old-fashioned way.”

* * *

The twins had had a long week and were exhausted. Kiku sent them to sleep before he returned to his tent at dusk. Lovino whined at being treated like a child but started snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. Feliciano begged for a snack, which Kiku felt obligated to fetch – but he was curled up and peaceful by the time he returned. Kiku left the plate by his bedside and hurried to change. The circus naturally worked long hours during the winter; if not for the cold driving their customers back indoors, Kiku wondered if any of them would get any sleep. The atmosphere was never uncomfortable within the gates – if anything, the dusting of snow made it more magical than ever – but no sooner than someone paused to contemplate it then the chill would settle in. 

Kiku had written a letter of his own earlier that afternoon but he didn’t expect it to be answered. Yao had always been more of a hands-off instructor. Still, it helped to put his thoughts on paper. They were impossible to organize when they rattled around in his head. With his worries out of the way – if only symbolically – he could better focus on what to perform tonight.

With the snow blowing in, dusk had come unnaturally fast. He recognized the telltale signs – any minute now, the gates would open. There would be no time for his usual entrance. It would be better to simple stand in wait for his customers.

He pushed the tent’s flap aside, hoping that he’d made it in time.

Alfred Jones, who had been seated in the front row, facing the entrance, stood up immediately.

For a moment, they stared at each other.

“Um,” said Alfred, “I guess I’m too late for that lesson?”

Kiku pulled his gloves tightly over his fingers.

“Of course not,” he murmured. “But now –”

Now what? Now what?

Alfred smiled suddenly, lopsided. “You must think I’m a huge asshole, right?”

“No,” said Kiku, startled. “Not at all. You have so many responsibilities. I’m surprised that you remembered.”

And, he thought privately, I’m so glad that you did.

“Tell you what!” Alfred declared. “I’m going to make it up to you. I’m going to use my far-reaching managerial powers and get you something – anything you want!”

Kiku felt his cheeks grow warm.

“I can assure you, that’s not necessary.”

“But I want to,” said Alfred, stepping closer. “Seriously, anything you want!”

Kiku looked away from him, shoulders hunching. “I have all that I need.”

Alfred deflated, his smiling shrinking back. “This usually works on people, you know.”

Teasing, but still, it pained Kiku to think that he was inconveniencing anyone. This was far more embarrassing than it would have been if he’d simply apologized and they’d moved on. But how rude it would be to refuse him – especially considering that this was his way of earnestly apologizing. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, either. Especially if Kiku could use it to his advantage in the game.

In all these weeks, he’d gotten no closer to discovering his opponent’s identity. One morning, after dawn had come and the actors had gotten to sleep at last, he’d examined the bonfire, searching for the source of its magic. True enough, most of it was powders and chemicals – but there was a strong energy within. It was less like a fire and more like a miniature sun, powering the circus. He could not identify the signature or trace its origin. The chemicals were English manufactured but half the circus had lived in London before Opening Night. And since then, nothing had changed. The circus had merely gone about his business.

The only conclusion that Kiku could think of was that his opponent was waiting for something.

Perhaps it was now Kiku’s time to make a move.

His cautious personality clashed with more opportunistic impulse. He bit his lip.

“I just –” he said, lowering his chin. “I would hate to cause you any more trouble then I’m sure I already have.”

Alfred said, “Listen, it’s not – it’s no trouble. I really feel bad about the way I’ve acted towards you. I promise I’m not normally – like this, you know? Ask anybody! I’m usually way more charming and amazing.”

Kiku automatically smiled.

“And it doesn’t have to be a big special thing!” Alfred went on, determination pouring out through his voice. “It can be actually anything you want! Like – if you want a snack before you start your show or a day off or if just want me to get out of your hair and leave you alone –”

“Oh, no,” Kiku began. “It’s fine, I –”

“Or if you just miss something from home –”

And just like that, he had an idea.

“Actually,” he said. “There is one thing…”

Alfred looked delighted. “Name it and it’s yours!”

Kiku explained, “The place I grew up had a very expansive garden complex. While I was in London, I was able to visit some of the parks and – well. They were pretty, but because of the season, it wasn’t the same.”

Alfred considered this for a moment.

“A garden,” he said. “Yeah – that’ll work!”

It was a selfish request, but Kiku couldn’t see the harm in it. “You’ll do it?”

“Sure! Tell you what. We’ll have a full day to set up after we arrive in Moscow – so as soon as the train stops, I’ll meet you at your car.”

This surprised Kiku. “In – Moscow?”

“The very same!” Alfred confirmed happily. “Trust me, it’ll be great!”

Kiku was not so sure. He had never heard of anyone feeling glad to visit Moscow in the dead of winter. How was Alfred going to fulfill his request under these conditions? It had seemed so simple but now Kiku worried that he really had set an impossible task.

“Deal?”

Alfred held out a hand to shake. Kiku took it hesitantly, feeling the warmth of Alfred’s hand even through the thick fur-lined gloves that he wore.

“Deal,” he agreed. “But may I ask –”

“Don’t worry,” said Alfred, already heading for the entrance of his tent. “I’ll take care of everything!”

“Alfred?”

But the manager was gone, and suddenly, people filed into the tent and began filling the seats, as if they had merely been waiting for their cue.

* * *

Two days later, Kiku woke in the morning to a knock on his door.

Feliciano – the lighter sleeper between the twins – lifted his head and said fuzzily, “Whashat?”

“Nothing,” said Kiku, heart pounding as he lunged for his clothes. He had spent so long deciding on what to wear; he felt ridiculous now, acting like some socialite preparing to meet a potential husband or something like that. “Go back to sleep.”

The knock came again, more insistent this time.

“I’m sorry!” Kiku called, pushing his arms through his sleeves. “Just a moment.”

He would barely even have time to comb his hair.

Feliciano sat up, blinking rapidly. “But Kiku…”

“It’s nothing,” said Kiku insistently. He wished that he had been more mindful of his lessons in magical persuasion; with the right tone of voice, anyone could be convinced of anything. For example, Yao was capable of putting him straight to sleep with a single word, even now that Kiku was an adult. “Antonio will come by to check on you in an hour or so. And remember – there is to be no magic unless I am there to supervise. Is that clear?”

Feliciano nodded, smiling.

“Okay, but don’t worry about your date, Kiku. I know you’ll have fun.”

Kiku went scarlet. _This presumptuous child…_ As much as he enjoyed being their teacher and took pride in their progress, he couldn’t wait for the day that the twins were old enough to have their own quarters. Having to conceal his every thought from the surprisingly shrewd Lovino was hard enough. But with Feliciano’s future-sight still so random and his personality so scatterbrained, there was never any telling when he might blurt out such embarrassing things like that.

The loudest knock yet echoed through the room and Lovino shifted in his sleep. Kiku hastily shut the sliding screen between the twins’ room and his own, and went to the door.

“Am I early?” asked Alfred, smiling.

“No,” said Kiku, slipping out into the near-frozen snow. “In fact, I should apologize since I’ve overslept –”

“No need! You’re going to love this.” Alfred was practically bouncing with eagerness as they started to walk. It was actually rather cute, Kiku admitted. Once more, he was forced to remind himself that he wasn’t here for his own selfish reasons. Something about Alfred Jones made it all too easy to forget about the game. Yao would be incredibly disappointed.

Alfred kept up a running commentary as the train grew smaller and smaller behind them. “I know everyone says that Moscow is the devil’s armpit or whatever the saying is, but I’m actually really excited to be here. I never have before, which is surprising, since I’ve been basically everywhere else! Did you eat yet? Ivan told me about this great bakery that his sister used to work at – they’ll have coffee and pastries, if you want!”

Still, Kiku thought, smiling – maybe it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy himself a little bit.

* * *

Meanwhile, Ivan had woken up straight away and gone to his sister’s house. 

Katya Braginski lived in a working-class corner of Moscow, tucked beneath the shadow of a factory that specialized in smelting steel. Katya had indeed been a baker – her first job after the death of their parents – and a later, a nanny for a wealthy family, and a laundress, and half a dozen other odd jobs. Recently, she had – inspired by her brother’s example – taken up work at one of Moscow’s printing houses, pressing letters into the pages that would become newspapers, leaflets, and novels. It was hard work; she had permanent callouses on her hands, and backpain from labor.

Still, when she opened the door, Ivan was glad to see that some things hadn’t changed. Her boyish haircut – long hair got in her way – and her smile, and the tears that welled in her eyes when she pulled him into a fiercely tight embrace.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she said.

Ivan felt his own heart constrict, a pain that he hadn’t realized was even there suddenly evaporating with the realization that he’d come home.

“I missed you too,” he said, squeezing back.

Katya squeaked. “Ouch! Careful.”

“Sorry.” Ivan pulled back, weary of his own strength.

“No! This is good news!” Katya beamed, leading him into the house. “I’m glad that you’ve gotten strong. I was worried about you out there, you know. This shows me that at least you’ve been getting enough to eat!”

Ivan thought about the day he’d met Francis – out of money, starving, and about to be thrown out of his cheap, dirty flat. He took in his sister’s cozy little house – the flowerboxes on the windowsill waiting for spring, the scent of her cooking wafting in from the kitchen, the stacks of magazines and novels that she’d collected, the handmade quilts. He put a hand to the scarf on his neck – Katya’s first endeavor in homemaking.

“I hope you’re hungry!” Katya continued, bubbly. “Of course, I got overexcited and bought too much, but I thought – well, no use in it all going to waste! So, I cooked everything but we can eat slowly. I want to hear all about this funny circus and your new friends and –”

At last, Katya seemed to realize that Ivan had come alone.

“Oh… I thought in your letter, you said –”

Ivan put on a reassuring smile. “Alfred is very excited to meet you, but he’s busy this morning. He’ll drop by in a few hours, once his work is done.”

Katya didn’t appear to notice the strain in his voice when he explained. She smiled.

“Oh, good! That’s a relief. We’ll save him a plate, shall we?”

Ivan checked his watch. _Alfred…_

“Are you coming? Make sure you take off your boots, please!”

Ivan sighed, and reached down for his laces.

* * *

After coffee and pastries, Alfred led Kiku to a strange yellow-brick building near what appeared to be a university campus. Nearby was a dome of opaque glass, the snow and what may have been steam from within completely obscuring what might have been inside. It was completely empty for some reason, which worried Kiku. Alfred strode right up to the gate, cracked open the door, and gestured for him to enter first. But Kiku hesitated.

“Are we allowed –?”

“Don’t worry! It’s open. I checked ahead of time. Hurry, you’re letting the cold in!”

Kiku hurried forward, wondering what could possibly be waiting for him within.

A rush of heat made him cough; Kiku instantly felt overdressed. He reached for his hat and his coat, blinking rapidly.

After spending so long in a colorless world, the rush of green overwhelmed him. Kiku nearly gasped to see the leafy, tropical plants – a great green pond bursting full of lilies and every patch of earth covered with bushes and stalks and clumps of flowers, scarlet and vermillion and violet, even some that nearly matched the blue of Alfred’s eyes. Almost, but not quite, Kiku thought, risking a single glance backward. Thick trees reached nearly the top of the dome, which was massive enough on its own. Kiku could barely make out the far sides. A path inlaid with gravel and lined with round stones lay at their feet, winding through the gardens.

“What do you think?” said Alfred behind him, a smile in his voice. “Amazing, right? Summer in the middle of winter! The tropics in Moscow!”

“A botanical garden,” Kiku said, and he couldn’t help but smile in turn. A greenhouse at a university, a place for the study of plants. He was so worried that he hadn’t even considered this possibility at all. “It’s wonderful, Alfred. Thank you for taking me here.”

“Did you know it’s one of the biggest in all of Russia? Ivan said he used to come here with his sister. It was founded by, uh –” Kiku looked up to see Alfred’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Some kind of king I can’t remember the name of, but it’s over fifty years old! And originally, it was for making medicine, but now they’ve got plants from all over the world! Maybe they even have some things from Japan. We can try and find them if you want!”

Kiku’s heart swelled with affection. “I don’t know if they would have anything like that, but we can try.”

They went to explore the gardens, side by side.

* * *

Several plates of food later, Katya finally revealed the truth to Ivan.

“Also, I’m getting married.”

Ivan nearly choked on his coffee.

“What?”

Katya looked embarrassed but serious. She lifted her hand, where Ivan finally noticed a gold band. He couldn’t believe it; he had spent so long stealing glances at Alfred’s ring finger, examining the mysterious scar, but he hadn’t even noticed his own sister’s hands at all.

“Who is he?” Ivan asked. “Someone I know?”

“Vanya,” said Katya slowly, as if he were a child who’d wandered in on an adult’s conversation and needed a simple explanation. But Ivan was not listening. He hadn’t had that many friends while he was in school, and most of the neighborhood kids had taunted him for one reason or another, so he doubted that there were any suspects there. Perhaps a coworker or someone else she had known, but Katya wasn’t foolish enough to fall for some sweettalk or empty promises. Part of the reason that he’d left Moscow was because he feared that Katya would spend her whole life worrying about him and never take any time for herself, but marriage to some stranger was a little much, wasn’t it? Ivan couldn’t help but feel indignant. After all, since their father wasn’t around to give permission, shouldn’t she have asked his opinion first?

“How long has this been going on?”

“Vanya.”

“Please tell me it’s not that manager from the bakery. I never liked him.”

“He gave you free pastries every morning on your way to school,” she reminded him tiredly. “And he lent you his son’s coat after you ripped yours. Twice.”

“Who is it?” Ivan demanded. “Katyusha –”

“Don’t you ‘Katyusha’ me,” she said, sounding so much like their mother that Ivan stopped dead. “It just didn’t feel like the sort of thing I could put in a letter, that’s all. I wanted to tell you in person.”

Ivan took a deep breath. “Sorry. It’s just that this was a little sudden, you know?”

“I know,” she said gently. Then, she added, “He’s Polish.”

“ _Polish?_ ”

“Vanya!”

“Sorry,” said Ivan, cowering.

“He contributes to the magazine I’m working on,” Katya went on, a bit frostily, eyeing him like a hawk for his reaction. “He’s – well, he’s funny. People tend to underestimate him but he’s smart. And he makes me laugh. He’s a good man. I’m going to move to Warsaw with him.”

Ivan wanted to argue. Did she even hear herself? Talking about packing up and moving out with some random Polish fellow who probably wrote radical propaganda or something – it was insanity. If Father had been alive, he never would have allowed it. And Ivan was in no position to stop her, no matter how much he believed that this was a terrible idea.

“Are you sure?”

Katya nodded. “Yes, I am.”

Ivan bit his tongue, then sighed. “Well, in that case, I’m happy for you.”

“Okay,” said his sister, leaning forward. “Now, it’s your turn. What is it that you wanted so badly to tell me?”

All at once, Ivan clammed up, unable to speak. The words were there, jumbled and scattered, so it was merely a matter of putting them in the right order. He was no coward; his resolve trembled but did not fall. He justified it to himself: He had just had a bit of a shock. But he had come this far and had no intent to turn away. He took a deep breath and said,

“I am in love with someone as well.”

Katya asked, “Oh – is it that friend you were telling me about?”

It was a good thing Ivan had set his coffee down earlier, but he would have shattered the mug.

“What?”

His sister smiled slyly at him. “Oh, Vanya. You know you can’t hide from me. I know everything about you. Still, I’m glad you were able to tell me in person.”

Ivan felt worse, somehow – raw, exposed. He had been so careful, all their lives. How?

“Look at me.”

Katya reached across the table and squeezed his hand. Her smile was the same as ever; Ivan could not be frightened of her, no matter what.

“Are you happy?” she asked. “Does your friend make you happy?”

Ivan swallowed. “Yes. Yes, he does.”

“Then, I’m happy for you,” she said. “Please, Vanya. You said yourself, you know how I worry. I don’t like it when you keep secrets from me.”

He closed his eyes, feeling his throat close up. “I don’t like secrets, either.”

“Then, from now on, let’s both agree to be honest with each other. Even when it’s a hard truth. The truth is still important, right?”

“Right.”

Ivan’s voice shuddered and he took a deep breath. Katya got up from the table and hugged him again. Here, in this old house, warm and full of good food and with his sister’s arms around him – this was where Ivan knew he belonged. He never could have had this conversation anywhere else. And now, he realized, he may never get the chance again. Katya was leaving for Warsaw. And he was leaving for the circus – back to secrets and games. It didn’t seem right.

And speaking of which…

“By the way,” said Katya, pulling back from him with a frown. “He was supposed to be here by now, wasn’t he?”

* * *

Kiku scarcely noticed that the light was fading. He and Alfred wandered from greenhouse to greenhouse; he could hardly remember the last time he’d been able to smile so much and so easily. It was his growling stomach which drew him back to reality. 

“We can head back, if you want,” said Alfred. “I bet they’re just calling for dinner now.”

“We’ll be late,” Kiku pointed out.

“But I’m the manager! The manager is never late.”

“You admitted to being late for our first appointment…”

Alfred flushed, which pleased Kiku immensely.

“Well, that’s different!” he said. “That’s like – um. Like if di Silva wants me to help with a meeting and I get stuck in traffic!”

To hear him compare this outing to a business venture was a serious blow to Kiku’s confidence.

“I see.”

“Not!” said Alfred hastily. “Not that this is – um…” His voice rose as he grew nervous. “Listen, I’m just really glad I got to spend some time with you, that’s all! I’m glad that we’re finally getting to know each other.”

Not the smoothest recovery, but Kiku had to forgive him for that one. For all his bravado, Alfred was still quite young and probably not very experienced when it came to these matters. He probably had difficulty telling what Kiku was thinking. Perhaps he’d even been honest, and he didn’t consider this a “date” at all. Either way, it was fine. Kiku had managed to accomplish both of his goals with this venture. Not only had he taken plenty of inspiration from this place, but he’d also gotten to spend time with Alfred, just the two of them. Now at last, he felt that he could move on to the next step. It was time at last to start seriously playing the game.

Kiku smiled to reassure him. Alfred looked relieved.

“This was very thoughtful of you. I just want to thank you again for everything you’ve done – to make me feel welcome, that is.”

Alfred’s smile was so honestly happy that it nearly destroyed Kiku’s willpower altogether. He wished that he could spend an eternity in this afternoon, watching the sunset cast crystals of light over the flowers and trees, just getting to know this person a little bit more.

“I just – well – I mean, I – you’re welcome,” said Alfred.

They departed the botanical gardens, quieter now than before. Kiku was no longer uncomfortable around Alfred and it seemed that Alfred had finally relaxed around him. They walked closer together, their shoulders nearly touching, though Alfred kept his hands firmly in his pockets. Kiku wondered if it was possible – _this_. He could try again, fall in love again. Here, away from Yao’s influence.

Kiku was not nearly naïve enough to believe that his teacher wasn’t watching him, even now. But he wanted to believe that he could have everything he wanted – victory, and this. Maybe he could find a way. After all, it was his game, not Yao’s. And once he’d identified his opponent, then…

Alfred stopped suddenly, going pale.

“Shit,” he whispered.

They were nearly back to the circus, which had been all but completed during the day. The curling gates hiding the ticket booth behind a series of intricate locks and a sign warning locals about the cost of trespassing. Of course, the actors were free to come and go as they pleased during the day; each of them had been given their own keys for convenience.

Standing at the gate with his keys in hand was Ivan.

The Fortuneteller had always struck Kiku as being unfriendly. The first night they’d met, he’d spent all his time drinking and glowering, not even saying a word. Kiku had gotten so uncomfortable that he’d eventually found an excuse to get up and leave. It had surprised him, back then, to learn that he was a close personal friend of di Silva’s handsome, upbeat assistant. He looked up at Alfred, who looked inexplicably ashamed of himself.

Ivan looked at him, and then at Kiku.

Without saying a word, he opened the gate and entered the circus, slamming it shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, listen, I know I fudged the location of Russia's oldest botanical gardens (St. Petersburg, not Moscow) but I hope you can forgive me for that. Maybe this is a different botanical garden that got shut down later? Imagination is the key!
> 
> This chapter felt rather long but it's quite important. Not only for the character development but I feel like Alfred and Kiku have danced around each other too long; sooner or later, Alfred had to just bite the bullet and make a move. I wonder when Kiku will figure out that he has (several kinds of) ulterior motives. Still, it's always good to see them getting along. 
> 
> Also, it's always nice to write about a happy Katya and an emotional Ivan! (TBH Poland/Ukraine is a really cute ship??) Next time, we'll see what Kiku's come up with for his big move! Other than that, let me know what you think of this chapter! Happy holidays to all and catch you next time!!!


	13. thawed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW, Y'ALL THIS WAS A DOOZY
> 
> i'd like to personally dedicate this chapter to snark-sniper who honest to god almost made me cry with all your reviews
> 
> i was really struggling to write this chapter and you gave me a huge boost of motivation - this one was almost twelve pages! thank you my friend, and i hope you enjoy this one!!

Everything seemed to go frigid over New Year’s, but that did not stop the locals from turning out in full force. Katya Braginskaya visited the circus every other night, even bringing her fiancé on the evening of their departure from Moscow. Ivan had not spoken to Alfred since their arrival in town and was conspicuously absent for all of Feliks Lukasiewicz’s grand tour, only stopping by to shake his new brother-in-law’s hand before disappearing into the night.

When they could not find him after a few hours, Katya merely sighed and confided in Alfred that, “My brother is more dear to me than anyone. For so long, we had no one but each other in our lives. I think it is hard for him to accept that, as adults, we must now take different paths.”

They were outside the acrobat’s tent after a show. Feliks had gone to get them some ciders and they stood together, watching the guests disperse between tents. Alfred wanted desperately to complain about Ivan but he couldn’t – not to this woman. She radiated kindness and warmth and it was clear not only from Ivan’s testimony but from her every action that she valued her family above all other things in the world.

To his credit, Alfred felt genuinely guilty for missing out on the first meeting with Katya. But she’d come to the circus and she’d forgiven him, and her fiancé was a little weird but funny. He couldn’t understand why Ivan was still so angry. It wore Alfred’s patience dangerously thin. He hadn’t even known he was capable of such patience before now. He had been criticized in the past for immaturity – for running and hiding instead of facing his problems. And so for the last two weeks, he had tried everything in his power to make up to Ivan, short of giving direct orders. He could not order Ivan to face him; Ivan was a friend and deserved more. He deserved Alfred’s genuine remorse. But so far he had had gone out of his way to reject it.

“You will take care of him, won’t you?” asked Katya suddenly.

Alfred blinked, coming out of his head. He smiled.

“Of course. What else are friends for?”

Katya smiled, and cupped his cheek with one gloved hand. Alfred had barely begun trying to unpack the meaning behind this gesture when Feliks returned with an armful of snacks and a powerful desire to pick Sadiq’s brain on the secrets of taming wild leopards and tigers.

The nights in Moscow were almost unbearably long but this one was the longest yet.

The Fortuneteller’s tent was hung with the now-familiar sign: “Closed due to unforeseen circumstances. Come back later.”

As dawn broke, Katya kissed Alfred on the cheek and thanked him for the welcome. She made him promise to bring the circus back soon. As the actors headed to the cook’s tent for a last meal before a well-earned rest, a whisper spread through them like wildfire: Yong Soo found Ivan asleep in his room with an empty bottle on his desk.

The news had barely gotten to Alfred when the others cornered him about it.

“You’ve got to deal with him,” said Emma, in all her five-foot-tall ferocity. “This is your circus. He’s a member of your staff.”

“And he’s your friend,” added Antonio, a bit kinder. “He’ll listen to you.”

“The guests complain when they can’t have their fortunes told,” Emil observed.

“The bastard is making more work for us,” Basch growled.

“And,” said Gupta, “he is acting unprofessionally. Beneath our standards.”

The snake-charmer rarely spoke unless he had something absolutely vital to say. Alfred felt the weight of this statement more than the others. Di Silva had entrusted this place to him personally and the old man was fond of his wine but he didn’t shirk his responsibilities. Alfred knew what his mentor would’ve said about Ivan. But the implication of him being some kind of lay about drunk unsettled and upset Alfred, because he knew Ivan better than that. He knew what this was really about – and that, fundamentally, was the thing that annoyed him most.

“I’m trying!” Alfred dropped his silverware, throwing up his hands in a gesture of innocence and surrender. “I’ve been trying to talk to him for the past two and a half weeks but he won’t listen to me, keeps running off when I try to talk to him! I mean, did you even notice that he barely eats with the rest of us anymore? He’s avoiding me.”

“Well, he’s not going anywhere, the state he’s in,” Emma reminded him, raising an eyebrow. “So why not go and talk to him now?”

Alfred looked down at his plate, still piled with toast and eggs and bacon. “Can I at least –”

“NO,” said Emma and Basch in unison.

Antonio smiled sympathetically, and patted him on the arm as Alfred got up from the table. The circus was empty but he felt their eyes on him long after he’d left their sights. It was quiet in the outskirts, where the train’s carts were lined up in preparation for their evening departure. Snow crunched loudly under his boots, echoing in the empty spaces. For once, the sky was clear but when he got to Ivan’s door, he found Yong Soo standing guard.

“You don’t want to go in there right now. Give a day or two – until the hangover is gone.”

Standing in the late pale dawn, hungry, and wishing desperately for the warmth of his bed and blankets, Alfred threw up his hands and told Yong Soo, “I already apologized to him! I apologized to him like five different times! What is his problem?”

Yong Soo fixed him with a highly significant look. Alfred felt his cheeks warm.

“It was a fact-finding mission,” he insisted. “And I know – I know damn well what it looks like but I can’t – what I mean to say is that I wouldn’t – not like this, okay? It’s just that I’ve got to stop being scared of him if I’m ever going to win this stupid game!”

“I know,” said Yong Soo. “But you have to explain that to Ivan.”

“I thought that I had,” Alfred muttered. _I just thought that he understood._ “Whatever. I’m tired, I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll stay here for awhile.”

“You’re not sleeping?”

Yong Soo shrugged, and produced a cigarette, lighting it between his fingers. The acrid smell tickled Alfred’s nose and he grimaced automatically. “I don’t sleep well in this country. Seriously – I think the sooner we get out of here, the better it will be for all of us.”

Alfred thought about this. “We’ve got a couple more stops in Europe planned but Asia’s got plenty of good locales. I think I can get the circus out there with a little effort.”

“Don’t rush on my account,” said Yong Soo, grinning wryly. “I don’t sleep well in China, either.”

Alfred grimaced, wondering if Kiku would say something similar. He had grown up in a place with a beautiful garden – did he have good memories of his time with Yao? Perhaps Yao and Arthur had more in common than they liked to pretend.

“Well,” said Alfred. “Tell Ivan that whenever he grows a pair, we can talk this out like men. But he’s not going to get me to beg.”

Yong Soo nodded. “I hear you, pal.”

Alfred walked down along the line of carts, letting his eyes rest on the curtains that had been drawn tight over the windows of Kiku’s quarters. He hadn’t been at breakfast, either. Since their visit to the botanical gardens, he’d taken to retiring early after his shows.

The worst part about all of this, for Alfred, was that while Ivan stalwartly gave him the cold shoulder, Kiku seemed absorbed in work. Sadiq required extra care for his cats, Antonio and Basch were working overtime and sleeping less to meet guest demands during this freeze, which left Kiku to take on the responsibility of babysitting the twins. Alfred had thought that coming to Moscow would be good for Ivan – he’d see his sister, his old home that he always spoke of with such fondness. But now, Alfred was starting to understand why his father had hated this city so much.

It hadn’t been entirely bad. There was one afternoon in particular that had earned itself a permanent place in Alfred’s precious stock of pleasant memories.

He’d had one of the nicest afternoons of his life; he’d forgotten all about Ivan.

He’d forgotten.

He thought about knocking – just to check in. But if Kiku was sleeping, it was better to let him rest. They’d be out of Moscow soon. There would be time to talk when they’d all come out of this cold snap, into the sun again.

Alfred kept walking. He went to his quarters, threw himself into his sheets, and slept.

But Kiku was far from asleep. He sat on his knees in front of a long roll of thick calligraphy paper, tracing his fingertips across the sheet. So still he barely seemed to breathe. Ink flowed like a waterfall, and it was hard to tell whether the words had begun on the paper on in the writer’s mind. He was covered in words – kanji characters, alchemical symbols, equations. Kiku’s dark eyes were open, but his mind was far away, building an illusion from fragments of ideas, piecing memories together to create something that was entirely new.

He was not asleep. He was creating.

When Alfred passed the car, Kiku felt the presence of a magician. He froze, the words shuddering in the effort to hold them still on the paper.

_My opponent knows that I am here._

“Kiku?”

Lovino’s voice had startled him. Kiku partially relaxed.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” he said.

The boy grumbled something about being hungry but went into the other room without much fuss. And when he was gone, the sensation of encroaching power disappeared, too.

Kiku could not believe how strong the twins were becoming.

Soon enough, they would be impossible to hide.

He took his free hand and opened it. A shard of glass crystalized in his palm, which he closed and then opened again.

The shard became a rosebud, which blossomed before him.

It would not be long now.

* * *

Picture this. 

A shadow, a whisper. A faint, ephemeral presence – a glance from a stranger in a crowd. Heavy, significant, and gone the instant you turn your head.

This is the magic of Arthur Kirkland. Illusion. Distraction.

It was possible to detect him when he was like this, if one was finely in tune to their surroundings. If they were, as Alfred might’ve said, “in the know.”

Francis Bonnefoy had no abilities of this kind whatsoever – but he was a superb writer. One of the best young writers in all of France, which a statement that sounded very much like a boast until you picked up the society and culture section of Le Petit Journal and read the reviews for yourself. The Bonnefoy family was independently wealthy, though not beyond repute, as most of their fortune had been made making guns and auctioning off the property of beheaded noblemen. Francis was the last scion of his name; his money and that name made him a minor sensation, but his talent and his lifestyle had made him an even larger one. Like him or hate him, Francis Bonnefoy had the rare combination of charm, persuasion, and genuine goodness that altogether might be called “the Midas Touch.” Suffice to say that he was always got what he wanted.

“No one wants to read this bullshit.”

Francis smiled pleasantly. “I beg your pardon?”

The editor scowled over his desk, slapping the papers down.

“This is bullshit,” he said. “Look at these things you’ve written. Circus of dreams? The phantom twins? Midnight starburst? The green-eyed gentleman? We’re a serious publication, Monsieur. We don’t publish fairytales.”

“I can assure you the circus is very real,” said Francis, smiling through his teeth. “Though to be fair, I did not come up with the name.”

“Like stepping into a fairytale. You wrote those words, right here.”

“It’s poetry.”

“It’s idiotic,” said the editor, lighting a cigarette. “No one wants to read about a magic circus.”

Francis felt as though he was filling up with steam. He did not think it was a magic circus - he was a modern Frenchman, after all, and even the poets in France were prone to cynicism - but he did not believe it was an ordinary one either. And this was the sixth publishing house to turn him down in as many weeks. This was string of rejection was not simply unprecedented. It was beginning to feel like a conspiracy.

“I am not a journalist,” he told the editor. “I don’t publish the depressing things that you do - the things people already know. I tell them stories to ease their mind, to enlighten them. Frankly, you know this. You’ve never refused my work before.”

“You’ve never written garbage before.”

Here’s another thing that had never happened to Francis Bonnefoy before: Being dragged out of the office and tossed onto the street after punching the editor directly in the face.

Later, when he told this story to Lucille, she laughed in his face.

“Monsieur, you really have gone mad this time.”

“I have not,” France grumbled into his wineglass. “And he deserved it – sneering down at me, the elitist bastard that he is… What’s madness is that no one seems to be able to print this story. Not even the competitors. I’ve read every –”

Lucille held up a hand, scowling as she stood suddenly up from the table.

“WHO, pray tell, is disturbing my set? Those pieces were just repainted! If I catch even a single fingerprint, then mark my words – !”

The threat hung, unspoken, in the air. It would be a few more hours before the cabaret was filled. For now, the tables were almost too bright, immaculate under the dim lights. The stage, now littered with props and set pieces, would soon be alive with music. Lucille’s sharp eyes glinted behind her spectacles but none of the stagehands were brave enough to show themselves.

Barely noticing, Francis swallowed the rest of his wine and reached for the bottle.

“What I am concerned about,” he continued, pouring a glass, “is that there is not a single publishing house in Paris – no, not a single place in all of France – that will take this piece. It’s one of my best works, Lucy, you read it.”

“Useless,” said Lucille, coiling back into her seat. “And besides the point. Monsieur, you have talked of nothing but this circus for weeks.”

“It’s a once in a lifetime story! The latest and perhaps greatest artistic undertaking of Romulus di Silva himself? You don’t think that warrants at least some cursory investigation?”

“It’s a circus,” she said, raising one elegant eyebrow over her eyepiece. “There are dozens.”

“Smelly, dirty, uncouth places,” Francis insisted. “Not like this.”

“How is it possible that such a place is so wonderous and no one has written on it yet?”

“I don’t know,” said Francis. “That is what I’m trying to find out.”

This was the other suspicious thing: In his investigation, not a single paper had published a story on the Circus of Dreams. Not even a whisper of gossip any of the rags that passed for social magazines in London, despite rumors of royal intrigue. Not even a three-word announcement in the papers for towns where the circus had been. No reviews, no photographs. The circus seemed to simply pop up when and wherever it pleased. But Francis had their schedule – the dates – the borders they would cross. From Moscow, they had gone to Milan. It was not possible, even for the powerful Signor di Silva, to keep a thing like this hidden. Francis need not worry about breaking the story first. It seemed he was the only person in Europe writing it.

“Perhaps Signor di Silva can help you,” Lucille suggested. “He’s all but fully recovered, I heard. I’m sure he knows someone who can print your work – if it’s really that important to you, of course.”

This piece was only the difference between growing old and gray or living a long life full of magic and possibility and joy. And even if it were not – Francis Bonnefoy did not suffer insult or injustice quietly. The stuck-up bastards passing for editorial committees would eat their words. He would get this piece published if it were the absolute last thing that he ever did.

“Yes,” Francis decided. “It is.”

A smirk crossed Lucille’s face now. “Or perhaps your mysterious green-eyed gentleman can publish the story for you.”

“Perhaps he could,” Francis sighed, “if I could ever manage to find him. As far as I can tell, the name I was given is a false one.”

Lucille sniffed. “You choose the strangest things to care about, monsieur.”

She’d said the same thing when Ivan came around to the cabaret for the first time. This was where their friendship had taken root, Francis Bonnefoy and Ivan Braginsky. A pair of thinkers – they spent so many evenings here, talking and drinking and writing. That first evening, Lucille had taken one look at the large but timid Russian in his frayed jacket and it was clear that had he not attended with Francis, she would’ve thrown him back onto the street. It had taken weeks to thaw out the layer of steel around her heart.

“Does Ivan write to you at all?” Francis asked.

The wine bottle was nearly empty but Lucille, at last, took a cup for herself.

“On occasion, yes.”

“He’s told me that the circus will be coming back to the south very soon.”

“How thoroughly uninteresting,” said Lucille, clearly lying.

“You ought to come. I have a ticket – I am sure they will allow me to bring a guest.”

“Free admission? Perhaps that’s worth the price of an evening.”

“You could use a night off,” said Francis, eyeing the stage, wondering if the invisible, soundless stagehands would be relieved to have a break from their sharp-eyed boss. He had not even noticed them but he did not for one second believe that Lucille had been mistaken when she noticed the disturbance. She was too smart for mistakes like that. “I’m sure Ivan would be delighted to see you again.”

“While Ivan’s invitation by proxy is deeply appreciated, I’ve got to save my establishment from it’s incompetent staff,” she said loudly, though she did flash Francis a teasing smile. “Just wait ‘til I track them down. One fingerprint, one smear in the paint and heads will roll, you mark my words. Will you stay for the evening? It’s been a while since you attended a show. I’ve introduced a few new acts to keep things interesting.”

Concealed within the shadows of the silent stage, Arthur Kirkland bit back a sigh.

And Francis did stay, and watched with pleasure as the girls came out on stage in their glitter-dusted costumes, their bold and scandalous and as much a show as their dancing was. He laughed and sang and got roaring-drunk with a man close to his own age, a perfect stranger who invited him home at the end of the night.

Arthur was ready to leave then. You see, he had only come to observe. To protect his work from an unusually persistent nuisance who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing more or less than that. His relief when Francis turned down the proposition was only because it gave him more legroom to work. He had no interest in voyeurism but he had to find a way to discourage Francis from publishing. The safety of his son depended on the secrecy of the circus.

But it was nearly spring, and Francis had discovered what magic looked like. Nothing else would satisfy him now. He was like di Silva. It was no wonder why they got along so well. Lucille’s cabaret was as good and fun, just as it had always been. Good music, friends, wine, a chance to dance freely, away from society’s prying eyes. But it was missing the spark – the starburst that Francis had seen in the midnight bonfire, before the last touch of color had vanished from the land of his dreams.

Arthur had been at this for six weeks and he was tired. He worried that he had misunderstood the sort of man that Francis was. Artists, poets, the dreamers – they were all the same, in the end, weren’t they? Emotional, flimsy. Faint of heart. He’d seen enough men like that when he’d been performing. Arthur had poor opinions of the vast majority of humankind. He had been against the idea of a public game from the start; it was all Yao. Arthur despaired of the sensation that he was losing something precious, the longer this went on. No one would listen to him anymore. Di Silva, Alfred… Arthur worried that Francis would not stop until he’d exposed the circus to the widest audience possible. Until he’d drawn so many people into it, that one of them was bound to be hurt.

Even killed.

Arthur remembered what had happened the first time.

Despite his fear, at no point did Arthur consider removing Francis’s memories of the circus. Such a thing was a cruel, complex act – an absolute last resort. Arthur was of the opinion that painful truth is preferable to a sweet lie. To remove Francis’s memory of the circus would affect vast swathes of his mindscape. To be truly thorough in the erasure would require removing all memories connected with the circus at all, including the memories of Ivan Braginsky. If done imprecisely, it would permanently damage the subject’s mental capacity. Arthur Kirkland was many things but he was not desperate – or cruel – enough for that.

So Francis Bonnefoy stumbled through Paris in the dark, and when he went home, he dreamed of the moment when he’d seen the fire turn emerald green. It was a pleasant dream; he sighed in his sleep. When the sun came up, his dreams briefly turned dark and turbulent. He remembered the little twins, lost between fluttering canvas and torchlight, all the attendees looming about in masks of silver and scarlet. The stars seemed to be falling, catching fire as they hit the earth.

Arthur Kirkland lingered on the streets, all but invisible. Waiting.

When Francis woke, he did not remember his dreams.

That evening, the Circus of Dreams arrived in Versailles.

* * *

Feliciano liked Alfred Jones very much.

He was a little scary, in the way that all very strong people were a little scary for Feliciano. When Kiku informed the boys that they were to stay with Alfred during set-up, Feliciano’s first thought was to be confused. The manager surely had more important duties than minding them, and besides, it wasn’t bad for the twins to be left alone for a few hours. But Kiku insisted, and Alfred wasn’t as old as some of the other adults – more like a big brother than a parent or a guardian. It wasn’t his fault that he was tall; when he smiled it made you think that everything might be okay. Feliciano could easily understand why Kiku had taken a liking to him.

But Kiku wasn’t there today and Alfred was looking a little sad.

(The truth was that he was always a little sad, no matter how bright and cheery he appeared to guests and to the other performers. The twins had noticed.)

Kiku had not informed his students about the thing that he was working on. Perhaps it was related to the party. Feliciano thought of it sometimes, though he rarely dreamed about it anymore. He was trying, at Kiku’s insistence, to focus more on the things happening around him in the daylight hours, rather than staying awake to listen to the stars. He wondered if Lovino knew what was making Alfred sad, but decided it might be rude to ask. Perhaps the party would happen soon, here in Paris. How happy Alfred would be to dance with Kiku when that day finally came.

He smiled and looked at Alfred.

“Do you think we can visit the city while we’re here?”

“Uh,” said Alfred, “maybe? If Antonio or maybe Ivan wants to take you, sure.”

“Not him,” Feliciano said, eyes going wide. The memories of Ivan’s strange, deep eyes reflecting the bonfire light still made him shudder with fear. “Ivan is scary.”

“He’s a jerk,” Lovino agreed, stabbing a vegetable with his fork. “I don’t like him.”

Alfred sighed. “Yeah, I won’t lie. He’s being a jackass right now.”

The twins grinned at each other even though Alfred looked chastened at once. Most of the adults didn’t think it was appropriate to curse in front of young children but the twins had heard far worse when they had lived on the streets.

“But,” Alfred amended quickly, “he’s still a really good person. Deep down. In his heart.”

“Ivan is afraid of people,” Lovino said. “But he likes you, and his sister, and some other lady I don’t know but she’s friends with his other dumb friend.”

Lovino probably wasn’t supposed to know that – Ivan rarely spoke to others about his personal life and his past, least of all the twins, and Kiku had warned him time and again not to reveal secrets without asking first – but it was innocent enough, so Feliciano didn’t feel the need to scold his brother. “Will we see Monsieur Bonnefoy since we’re here?” he asked, butchering the French word with the kind of pride that only an eight-year-old learning his third language could muster.

“Maybe. I’ll ask and see if he wants to come by.”

Lovino scoffed.

“So,” said Alfred, “speaking of people we haven’t seen in awhile – what’s Kiku up to?”

A surge of triumph caused Feliciano to sit up straight and take a deep breath.

“Don’t tell him,” said Lovino immediately.

Feliciano groaned. “Why not, Lovi?”

“Kiku doesn’t want him to know,” said Lovino, and then, just because this statement didn’t seem to have the desired effect, he turned and looked Alfred in the face to repeat, “He doesn’t want you to know because you’re a distraction and he needs to work.”

Looking absolutely baffled, Alfred said, “Oh.”

The desire to obey instructions out of respect for his teacher was only barely outweighed by Feliciano’s desire to see Alfred and Kiku dance together as they had in his dreams. He bit his tongue and then blurted out, “But he said he wanted to go to the palace garden today and I want to go to the palace garden today!”

“You’d hate it,” said Lovino. “It sucks.”

“Come on, you’ve never even been there,” Alfred attempted.

Lovino crossed his arms and declared, “I don’t need to go there to know that it’s the worst. The people in this city are crazy, you know? They cut off their king’s head and the queen, too, even though she didn’t really do anything bad.”

Alfred raised his eyebrows. “I mean, sure, but – look, it’s just a nice big garden next to a really fancy house, that’s all. They didn’t cut off anyone’s head in there.”

“Says you,” Lovino retorted. “But they definitely did.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Lovi!” Feliciano gasped. “Why do you get to tell secrets?”

“I didn’t tell him anything, stupid! You told him about the garden.”

“Ara would love it there,” said Feliciano wistfully. “She would have so much fun chasing all the little birds around.”

“And eating them.”

“Don’t be so mean!”

Feliciano would’ve said more, but the shadows had shifted just out of sight. A faint noise like a bell chimed in his ear, a clear pure sound like a note of music. For a split-second, he envisioned the Fortuneteller with a smile on his face, hand in hand with Alfred – but there was something off about this image, something false and not wrong, but different, not quite –

At that moment, Ivan was walking past the cook’s tent. Alfred had not scolded Ivan about his behavior in Moscow, and in Milan, he’d been very diligent. The uncomfortable tension that had made Feliciano almost sick in Russia was thawed in sunny Italy, but still Alfred and Ivan were not speaking to each other. It was making both of them very sad. Feliciano could see the loneliness in Ivan’s eyes and knew that it was worse for him than it was for Alfred.

That was the sad truth of the matter.

As he went by, Ivan made eye-contact with Alfred for a split second.

Lovino immediately choked on his food.

“Jesus,” said Alfred, springing into action at once. “I look away for one second and you two go to pieces.”

“We do not!” said Feliciano indignantly. “It’s not our fault that you aren’t watching.”

Lovino, eyes watery as his breath returned, glared hard at Ivan’s coattails as they disappeared around a corner. Feliciano was not sure what just happened but he had an idea. Alfred and Ivan were twin stars – not quite intertwined, but a part of the same constellation. Where one traveled, the other would follow, until something cosmic separated them. The true nature of stars mystified Feliciano, even though Antonio had once explained it to him, but this he felt he understood. Perhaps that was the reason why Kiku did not want Alfred to be near him as he worked on his important project.

“Alfred, can we go and see Sadiq? I think Ara is going to have kittens and I want to make sure that she eats properly.”

If Ivan’s aloofness had disturbed Alfred, he did not show it. He grinned and announced, “Good thinking! Let’s go and see a man about some cats.”

* * *

 

To her enormous frustration, Lucille could not get the evening off.

“I thought you weren’t interested in the circus, my dear,” he teased, leaning in the cabaret’s doorway as the afternoon sun lowered dangerously. “What made you change your mind?”

“I didn’t think it would be coming here, to Paris!”

“And why not? The most magnificent city on Earth, surely…”

“That’s not what I meant.” She twirled the end of her long, thick braided hair in her hands, biting her red-painted lips. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed and she jabbed a finger in Francis’s chest, nudging him out onto the cobbled sidewalk ever-so-slightly. “You said that Ivan gave you the schedule, you infuriating bastard, but you neglected to inform me that the greatest new show in Europe was coming onto my doorstep. I found out from friends of friends of friends! And now, I can’t seem to get…”

She glanced behind her, where a flurry of activity was beginning to grow. The first patrons were already arriving for drinks and a light meal. She was dressed somewhere between ‘cabaret owner’ and ‘ordinary girl ready for a night on the town,’ which was a rare experience for Lucille.

“The show must go on, of course but… if it’s really as you say…”

“It will be here for two weeks, at least,” Francis assured her. “Don’t fret. It is marvelous, to be sure but I’m sure most everything is the same as when I last…”

“But – ” Lucille looked furious and disappointed with herself, “the unveiling…”

Francis looked at her quizzically.

“The unveiling of what?”

“The first new tent.” Lucille matched his gaze. “Didn’t Ivan tell you when he wrote last?”

“I hadn’t heard a thing.” Francis’s imagination blazed. Ivan had, at one point, mentioned a request from Herr Edelstein to add new attractions now and again but he seemed doubtful that they would follow through on it. “Who told you this?”

Lucille shrugged. “It’s only a rumor, I suppose.”

“Perhaps – or not.” Francis smiled when she glowered. “Not to worry. If there is a new tent, I promise I won’t enter. Then, as soon as you can get the evening to yourself, we’ll go and visit it with Ivan. Does that sound fair?”

Lucille sniffed. “It would be better to see the place now.”

“Better to see it with friends, I think.”

“Good night, monsieur.”

“The show must go on!” said Francis, grinning as he turned with a flourish and strolled down the streets. Lucille smiled faintly as he went – but the smile soon vanished when she felt it again. A sense of being watched. She glanced to her back, looking for whichever member of her staff had been sneaking around her again. But there was no one. The shadows were stretching out over Paris and the streets were emptying of all but tourists and the artists. It was a cabaret night, but the cabarets had a new competitor now. There was no telling what could happen when the circus was in town.

Only when she closed her door did the shadow of Arthur Kirkland slip away.

* * *

Alfred learned about the tent at approximately the same time that everyone else did, which was about two hours before the grand opening of the gates. Almost immediately, actors and other staff abandoned their posts to examine the thing. Alfred moved his way through the crowd, pointedly ignoring Ivan’s eyes on him as he brushed past his friend’s shoulder and pushed to the very front of the assembly. A wide circle, a domed top, nearly all black and crossed with thin white strips like diamonds. Nobody seemed to want to get near it; the entrance was undisturbed. A small sign had been placed at the entry:

“ _A flower falls even though we love it._  
_A weed grows even though we do not love it._ ”

“Dogen,” said Antonio’s voice at Alfred’s ear.

“What?”

Without missing a beat, Antonio replied, “A Zen Buddhist priest who lived in the thirteenth century. He published some absolutely fascinating critiques of major monastic schools of his day – really a man ahead of his time!”

Noticing the look on Alfred’s face, he blinked.

“What?”

“So – you know a lot about Zen Buddhism?”

Antonio shrugged. “No more than any other person, I guess.”

Of the ten or fifteen others that Alfred knew that had any knowledge of what Zen Buddhism even was, one of them was most definitely Kiku Honda. His palms began to sweat under his gloves. Now it made sense. Kiku wasn’t avoiding him these past few weeks. He was plotting his next move. He built – whatever this thing was. _He knows who I am, doesn’t he? He has to._

Alfred thought about the botanical gardens. That – that wasn’t a trick, not really. He had enjoyed himself that afternoon, truly. Maybe their conversations faltered now and again but Kiku was far from bad company. There was a reason why Alfred had forgotten about meeting Ivan and Katya that day. It had to do with the way Kiku had smiled at him when he realized where Alfred had brought him. Alfred was competitive but not quite that competitive.

“Alfred?”

“Yeah?”

“I was just asking,” said Emma, almost teasing, “if it was Kiku’s idea for you to commission something like this!”

“Wh – no, I didn’t make this.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “He’s been talking about missing home for awhile. His gardens.”

“You took him on that nice date and everything!” said Antonio.

“It wasn’t a date,” Alfred said, flushing instantly. “I mean, I didn’t do this for him – well, yes but not specifically for him. And I didn’t do this at all, but –”

To his horror, the other actors merely exchanged knowing smiles.

Alfred tried to square his shoulders and look important. “Okay, everyone! That’s enough gawking! We’ve got to give the guests something to show up for, right? The tent’s not going anywhere, so everybody back to their stations!”

They dispersed reluctantly – all except for Ivan. The Fortuneteller stood still, failing to appear nonchalant as it became clear what he was doing. Within moments, the space was clear, and it was just the two of them, standing apart as if squaring up for a fight.

“I noticed that Honda didn’t come out to examine the tent,” Ivan said.

“Obviously,” Alfred replied. “I mean, he made it, so of course he would know what’s in it.”

“What do you think is in it?”

Kiku had been spending an awful lot of time in gardens lately, and Alfred was not entirely sure it was because he missed the place he’d grown up in.

“I have a hunch.”

Ivan nodded. “When she left, was my sister at all…?”

“She invited us to her wedding next year, so we’ll have to go back to Warsaw.” Seeing Ivan’s expression sour, Alfred added, “Sorry, buddy. But did you expect me to turn her down?”

“Katya can be incredibly persuasive,” Ivan agreed. “I’m glad you were able to meet her.”

So far, so good. This was honestly a better conversation than Alfred could have hoped for, under the circumstances. Still he hesitated. “So…?”

Ivan exhaled shortly. “I am still unhappy but I… understand.”

At last, Alfred felt the ache of relief that only comes after a fight with one’s closest friend. Things like this can happen, you know, unravel even the tightest of bonds. They had forgotten their greater purpose but now they had remembered who they were. They were a team, Alfred and Ivan, and this would not be the end of them. Not yet.

“I am curious to see what he came up with,” said Ivan, eyeing the entrance. “He seems to have beaten you to the first move.”

“The bonfire was the first move,” Alfred corrected. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

The two of them moved forward, and went to see what Alfred’s opponent had made.

Picture the moment between anxiety and revelation – the moment that the curtain is pulled back from your eyes and you are met with a sight you’ve never imagined. A thing of immaculate beauty and serenity. An astounding force of nature, a feat of willpower that bent reality. A vision of the world that had clearly come from someone – something – else.

Alfred and Ivan walked into the tent and saw two very different things.

It was a garden of glass, ice, diamonds.

Alfred drew breath – cold, but not unpleasant. When he released the breath, a puff of steam clouded over his lips.

The tent was bigger on the inside, or seemed to be. There were benches, carved from white stone. The plants, so lifelike apart from their colorless state, seemed to breathe. It was pressingly quiet. Alfred’s footsteps, his breath, the pounding of his heart – they were all so loud. It was obvious to him, at once, that this was all Kiku. Every blade of grass, every leaf and flower – Kiku.

He took a step forward, and then another, like the garden was calling out and pulling him in.

“My god,” said Ivan.

Ivan remained near to the entrance, gazing out in a mixture of childlike awe and dawning apprehension. He had never imagined winter as a thing of beauty. Not like this. It was unnerving, the stillness of the garden. The cold. It never would have occurred to him to imagine nature as a dead and frozen thing, but of course, there could be no color in the Circus of Dreams… Di Silva had given explicit instructions; and naturally, it was part of the challenge for Alfred and Kiku. To make things that could not exist in nature, where color was the norm – things like this.

Ivan’s eyes swept the tent – massive, but somehow not crowded. The sheer variety of plants should have made it seem uneven but it wasn’t. He looked beside him at a blossom-covered tree. There were even cracks in the bark, nicks and curves in the branches. Real but impossible. Ivan plucked a cold, hard flower from a low-hanging branch. He watched as it melted in his palm.

When he looked up once more, an identical flower was unfurling in its place.

“Alfred,” said Ivan. He didn’t raise his voice; he had no need. A soft word carried through the garden like a shout. “This place is…”

So you see, Ivan was thinking about the game. Only now did he fully grasp the weight of what Alfred meant when he’d called Kiku “perfect” after seeing his audition in Rome. From watching Alfred, Ivan understood that magic – this power – it took energy, time, calculations. But this? For Kiku Honda to not only bring a place like this to life out of nothingness, but to maintain it long-term, perhaps indefinitely… He was even more powerful than Ivan or Alfred could have guessed.

It was the kind of thing that would have worried Alfred in the summer. But nearly a year had gone by since then. Alfred walked deeper and deeper into the garden, thinking that of course, Kiku would make something like this. He felt that he was looking, somehow, into the very innermost depths of his opponent’s mind – and what he saw was a landscape of unsurpassed beauty. Precise, quiet, and with so much to explore, to discover, to understand. Alfred, for the first time, was not thinking of Kiku as his opponent, his rival and enemy. Those words were all too harsh for someone who had made something so beautiful. A part of him had always admired Kiku, but now – now that spark of admiration caught fire in his chest.

The force of his enchantment warmed him from the inside, until he barely felt the cold.

He smiled at Ivan over his shoulder, misreading his friend’s dismayed expression for one of awe.

“I know,” said Alfred. “Perfect – right?”

“Yes,” Ivan agreed, heart sinking with renewed dread. “Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no update, my friends :D
> 
> some notes first: I think after all this time that Alfred's perspective is hardest for me to write. feliciano has a unique voice and thought process that challenges me a little bit but alfred's got a lot going on in his head, too, and his thoughts aren't as cheerful as he presents himself to others. 
> 
> I wrote the start of this chapter like half a dozen ways before I settled on its current format but it was good for me to flex my muscles and ease back into this story. I missed writing about magic honestly.
> 
> I wasn't sure, when I first started planning this fic, if I was going to reuse tents from the book or just make my own. But tbqh I love the Ice Garden - I really, genuinely love the concept and it occupies a really special place in the story, and I think it's an excellent vehicle to represent Kiku here. I couldn't NOT include it. 
> 
> I'm still in graduate school - in the process of writing my thesis, so the disclaimer about updates still stands! 
> 
> Again thank you to snark-sniper!! Let me know what you all thought of this chapter - I hope you all enjoy and will catch you all again next update, whenever that maybe!!


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